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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


lAilM    |2.5 

■  50     "^^        M^^l 

:^  1^  12.0 


L25  i  U  1116 


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PhotDgraphic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


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e 

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la  darnlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

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dernlAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
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symbole  y  signifle  "FIN  ". 

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de  Tangle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
•t  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessalre.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


/  errata 
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It 

le  pelure, 

9on  A 


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2 

3 

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4 

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6 

iiiiininiMriiWiilBHiiiiliiiiiiiiinwiii  iTi"' 


iiiniiiWiini,). 


Cr6'U.C' 


A 


CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEIE. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP 


"WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS." 


:^ 


(^hP^'^ 


^^^^'vo^-'fyu 


....  dabit  Deas  hi*  qnoqno  (tnem. 

Virgil. 

Thew  vexing  His  the  hand  of  God  will  end. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES   R.  OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LatB  TicKMOR  &  FlBU>8,  AMD  FlKbDS,  OsOVOD,  &  CO. 

1872. 


pM 


1^ 


I 


, 


C/ 


Untered  according  to  Act  of  Congroo,  In  the  ycnr  1S72, 

BV    JAMKS    n.  OSOOOI)    1-    CO., 

In  the  OlBco  of  tlio  Libniriun  of  Cougreia,  at  Washlaptfon. 


Univursity  Press  :  Wbixh,  Bicklow,  &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


mmm 


Qy 


/  will  not  ivrile  thy  name  upon  this  page 

For  the  wide  eye  of  all  the  world  to  see, 
Nor  will  I  blazon  forth  thy  noble  deeds  ; 

Enough  that  they  are  known  to  God  and  me. 
Straight  to  the  garner  of  thy  heart  I  send 

This  sheaf  that  I  have  gleaned,  'mid  hopes  and  fears. 
From  fields  where  I  would  fain  have  reaped  with  Joy 

Fair  fruit  from  seeds  not  wet,  as  these,  with  tears. 


Sure  of  thy  truthful  praise,  if  praise  I  earn. 

Sure  of  thy  gentle  blame,  if  blame  thou  must. 
To  thee  I  give  this  harvest  of  my  thoughts 

With  timid  hand,  but  strong,  unshaken  trust. 
Accept  my  waiting  gift,  and  know  thou  well 

That  I  have  wrought  my  work  to  gain  from  thee 
The  voice  of  Just  approval;  for  I  7vould 

That  thine  should  be  the  world's  great  voice  to  me. 


February,  1872. 


n 


iHH 


y 


L 


f   ■ 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK    I. 
NOTRE  DAME   DE  ROUEN. 

Pam 

Proeuiai. 1 

I.  Fabien  the  Canon 2 

II.   An  AaTLUK 8 

III.  Amtr. 6 

IV.  A88I8TINO  TO  CAPTURE  ONE'S  SeLT 7 

V.   A  Stbanoe  Leoacy 9 

VI.   How  A  Philosopher  mat  die 11 

VII.   The  Youno  Count ,        ....  18 


BOOK    II. 
CHATEAU  DE  CLERMONT. 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 


Fabien  the  Archdeacon         .       .       .       , 

A  Count,  a  Lily,  and  a  Rose     . 

A  Face  at  a  Window      .... 

I   CAN  MAKE  HIM  USEFUL  .... 

A  Vagrant  changed  to  a  Priest  . 

You  must  decide  for  yourself  . 

There  is  but  one  May  in  a  Year 

The  Heart  of  a  Priest  is  the  Hfjirt  of  a 

The  Alley  of  Sighs         .... 

This  is  all  we  have  found 

The  Plot  matures 

Justice  makes  a  Demand    . 

Crushing  a  Lily 


Man 


15 
17 
19 
21 
22 
24 
27 
•i9 
32 
36 
40 
45 
49 


I. 

ir. 

IIL 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 


BOOK    III. 
SARZEAU. 

"  The  Setting  of  a  great  Hope  " .        . 53 

Ch&teau  of  Sarzkau 69 

La  Croix  Verte 64 

Almost  a  Defeat 71 

Cruel  as  Death 76 

The  Gratitude  of  a  Poet 81 

You  MUST  not  see  him  aoain 88 

The  Secret  of  the  old  Cabinet 03 

ChAteauroux 98 


miS'{:x::i>!Ssm&msm 


maftmmmmgmiffmmimmtfK 


f 


▼I 


CONTKNTH. 


BOOK    IV 
HOTEL   DH   VKNTADOUU. 
1.    "  La  Bemk  Damp,  hanh  Mk.iici  " |||^ 

II.     A    FUIDAY    KVKMNO   AT   Till'.   lloTEL  VENTADOrK J»^ 

III.  A  DiNNKii  IN  THE  Hue  Castioi-ione J** 

IV.  This  and  That 

V.  In  which  Sill  Edwaud'h  Motive  ih  Oiiviovh J*" 

VI.  One  of  the  Foiitimtouh  Eventh  that  we  tali,  Fate         ....  IJ' 

VII.  "Stebnituu  infelix  alieno  vulneue" 

VIII.  Something  moiie  of  GeneviIive  Oautieu J^^ 

IX.    Too  LATE  to  have  HIMSELF "' 

X.   La  Roquette ^jj^j 

XI.  A  Day  of  Wrath 

XII.  Cbowmed  at  last 


1 


107 
114 
120 
125 
131 
i;w 
111 

151 
157 

lua 

170 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


BOOK   FIRST. 
NOTKE    DAME    DE    ROUEN. 


PROEMIAL. 

BETWEEN  iravre  and  Pftris,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Seine,  stands  the 
ancient  and  picturesque  city  of  Rouen. 
Its  majestic  and  sombre  aspect,  its  his- 
toric associations,  its  marvels  of  ecclesi- 
astical architecture,  its  medifoval  monu- 
ments, its  labyrinths  of  winding  streets, 
its  quaint  houses  dim  and  dingy  with 
the  stains  of  time,  the  narrow  windows 
looking  like  half-shut  eyes  from  their 
queer  gable  faces,  impress  one  with  its 
antiquity  as  well  as  with  its  historical 
importance. 

In  the  centre  of  the  town  the  ven- 
erable Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  towers 
above  the  Place  de  la  Pucelle,  where  the 
hapless  Maid  of  Orleans  was  burned  in 
1451.  How  often  the  stranger  pauses  to 
look  with  wonder  and  admiration  at  that 
immense  pile !  Impressed  with  a  feeling 
of  almost  awe,  the  eye  wanders  over  the 
vast  proportions  of  the  Gothic  facade, 
following  from  point  to  point  the  exqui- 
site tracery  and  elaborate  carving  of  the 
profuse  ornamentation,  until,  nearly  be- 
wildered by  the  complication  of  design, 
it  seeks  relief  above,  even  to  the  summit 
of  the  lofty  towers  that  stand  like  sen- 
tinels with  their  feet  upon  the  earth  and 
their  heads  wrapped  in  clouds.  One 
enters  reverently  its  deeply  recessed 
and  grandly  sculptured  portals,  and 
gazes  with  serious  delight  down  the 
mysterious  and  shadowy  length  of  the 
nave,  crossed  with  trembling  rays  of 
crimson  and  gold  that  fall  from  the 
great  rose-window  of  delicate  and  ex- 
quisite design,  flaming  with  the  most 
brilliant  colors  blended  with  remarkable 
skill  and  beauty. 

1 


In  the  choir  these  many-colored  rays 
illuminate  a  tablet,  lot  into  the  marble 
of  the  pavement,  that  marks  the  s]K>t 
where  the  heart  of  Richard  Cauir  do 
Lion  was  interred  ;  his  body  rests  at 
Fontevrault,  but  his  lion  heart  ho  gave 
to  Rouen  because  of  his  great  love  for 
Normandy. 

Behind  the  high  altar  is  the  interest- 
ing and  elaborate  monument  of  Cardinal 
d'Amboise,  Archbishop  of  Rouen  and 
Minister  of  Louis  XII.  The  stranger 
who  pauses  to  look  at  this  may  notice 
under  his  very  feet  a  small  black  mar- 
ble cross  on  which  is  a  half-effaced  Latin 
inscription :  — 

In/elieistitna, 

If  he  observes  it,  he  may  possibly  kneel 
to  trace  out  the  nearly  obliterated  let- 
ters, and  in  so  doing  he  will  discover 
another  inscription  crossing  the  original 
epitaph  in  minute  characters  :  — 

Cor  Mtum  Tecum  SepuUum  Est. 

A  fearful  tempest  was  abroad  on  the 
wings  of  the  night,  the  thimder  raved 
and  roared  around  the  solemn  edifice ; 
the  blue  lightning  flashed  through  the 
windows  and  down  the  deserted  nave, 
illuminating  carved  capital  and  column, 
piercing  even  into  the  secret  recesses  of 
the  groined  roof,  wrapping  the  marble 
images  in  a  spectral  light  until  they 
seemed  to  melt  like  phantoms  into  shad- 
ow. The  great  bell  in  the  tower  of  St. 
Remain  clanged  and  clashed  the  hour 
of  midnight,  when  the  eastern  portal 
opened  and  a  man  entered,  carrying  a 
lantern,  the  feeble  light  of  which  made 
but  a  faint  ring  under  the  flame  of  the 
tempest.     He  was  followed  by  a  silent 


5?yTi.'  -j-'A'" '  ■^'■^Tia:';  -gvn 


.J 


9 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


I      1   I 


Rnil  Htntcly  cotnpnnion,  nlio  plidi'rl  in  \\'\n 
Mhiulow,  like  ii  niotiriit'iil  N|iirit,  tliroiiKli 
tliu  iiiive  iukI  luTiiNH  tliu  triitmont  t<>  tliu 
lii;;li  iiltiir,  uliPrc  Htmid  n  ciiturul>|iio  HUp- 
|x)rtiiij;  II  cotHii  I'ovcriMl   with  a  velvet 

I  Mill.  Ki^'lit  tiiil  cHiKJIeN  threw  a  n\My 
i;:ht  over  the  kneeliiiK  ti^^iire  of  n  priest, 
who  eroHHcd  hiiiiHelf  t'roin  time  to  time, 
miitteriii;^  Ont  jiro  intliln  in  it  Hepiilehrui 
voice.  'I'ho  tnuii  who  entered  tirHt  Hut 
down  hiH  lantern  and  drew  buck  tlio  vel- 
vet pall,  revealing  a  uilver  plate  on  which 
was  enjrraved  a  heart  pierced  with  a 
Hpcar,  and  hclow  it  the  word  Aimie, 
Tiiu  air  Bccnied  to  tremble  with  a  si^h 
ftH  the  tall  tiKuro  drew  near  and  looked 
upon  the  placid  face  of  the  sleejHir ;  then 
he  fell  on  his  knecH,  and,  leaning  Iuh 
head  agaiiiHt  the  cotiin,  sharp,  nhort  Hobs 
burst  from  his  li|)8,  —  the  convulsive 
moans  of  those  who  caimot  weep.  Be- 
neath his  black  mantle  were  visible  the 
crimson-corded  robe,  the  violet  sash  and 
heavy  chain  of  a  dif^mitary  of  theChurch. 
It  was  Monseigneur  the  Archbishop  of 
Koiien  who  wept  with  his  head  against 
the  coffin  that  contained  the  body  of 
a  young  and  lovely  woman,  —  young, 
although  the  eyes  were  sunken  and  the 
niasB  of  hair  that  fell  back  from  her 
forehead  was  as  white  as  snow. 

T^vcry  day  when  the  great  rose-window 
burns  like  a  fiery  eye  under  the  level 
rays  of  the  setting  sun,  the  Archbishop 
of  Rouen  enters  the  eastern  portal  with 
a  stately  step,  and  crosses  the  navo  to 
the  high  altar  ;  there,  dismissing  his 
servant  who  follows  him,  he  falls  on  his 
knees  upon  the  cross,  clasps  his  hands 
over  his  heart,  utters  a  dreary  sigh, 
bows  his  head,  and  remains  long  in 
silent  prayer. 

When  he  leaves  the  spot,  there  are 
tears  on  the  epitaph. 


PART  FIRST. 

FABIEH   THE   CANON. 

"  A  FINE  morning,"  said  Fabien,  the 
canon  and  secretary  to  his  lordship 
the  Archbishop  of  Rouen,  as  he  re- 
turned the  profound  reverence  of  the 
wizened    old   woman  -who  raised  the 


leather  curtain  that  hung  over  the  oast* 
ern  portal  of  the  Cathu«lral. 

"  Ves,  tiionHcigneur,  a  fine  clear  morn* 
ing  to  see  Koiien  from  the  Tour  do 
Ibirre.  I  wish  <S(n1  would  give  mc  n 
little  more  strength,  that  I  might  creep 
up  to  the  platform  again  and  see  the 
blessed  city  below  me.  Ah!"  with  a 
dolorous  shake  of  the  head,  "  the  desire 
alwavs  remains,  monbeigneiir,  the  heart 
is  always  young,  even  after  old  age 
takes  away  the  strength." 

"  Is  it  possildel  Is  the  heart  always 
young  (  "  murmured  Fabien  in  a  dreamy 
voice,  as  the  leather  curtain  fell  behind 
him  with  a  flap  that  started  out  a  cloud 
of  dust  and  drowned  the  old  woman's 
(piavering  voice.  "  Is  the  heart  always 
young  1 "  he  repeated  slowly  as  he 
crossed  the  transept  and  nave  to  the 
little  door  opening  on  the  staircase  that 
leads  to  the  Tour  de  Burre.  *'  Her 
philosophy,  simple,  ignorant  old  soul,  is 
the  philosophy  of  an  age  long  past ; 
yes,  to  such  as  she  the  heart  may  bo 
always  young,  for,  after  all,  it  is  not 
time  that  wears  a  thing  ont,  it  is  use. 
Rationalists  tell  us  that  the  heart,  the 
soul,  the  mind,  are  one.  If  so,  then 
such  clods  may  well  have  young  hearts, 
for  they  use  them  but  little.  I  am 
twenty-five  to-day,  and  I  am  older  than 
that  old  crone.  I  have  lived  centuries, 
because  I  have  gained  the  knowledge  of 
centuries,  because  to-day  I  understand 
all  that  has  exhausted  time  since  the 
creation  to  develop.  All  that  the  re- 
search of  ages  and  the  experiments  of 
science,  all  that  theology  and  mcta))hys- 
ics  have  revealed,  I  am  master  of.  What 
does  it  matter  if  we  have  lived  a  few  years 
more  or  loss,  if  we  have  the  experience 
of  agesi  '  Knowledge  is  power,  knowl- 
edge is  pov^er,'  "  he  repeated  again  and 
again  as  he  hurried  up  the  winding 
steps ;  "  knowledge  alone  is  power,  but 
knowledge  combined  with  wealth  is 
double  power.  I  have  toiled  all  the 
years  of  my  life  for  the  first ;  now," 
clasping  his  hands  with  a  sharp  and 
energetic  stroke,  "  now  for  the  other.  I 
am  sure  of  myself,  the  power  is  within 
mc.  I  tvill  conquer  every  obstacle  and 
attain  my  end.  What  emoluments,  what 
honors,  the  Church  offers  to  her  zealous 
disciples !  literature,  science,  art,  are  all 
very  well  to  serve  as  means,  but  these 


pecti 

grudj 

out 

But 

who 

less, 

stran 

birt 

at  t 

I  hav 

I  am 

I  fee 

my 

great 

The 

tain, 

not 


— y^nfij-wj?!. 


CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


\((  over  tho  cttit* 

I  ml. 

film  cloar  morn- 

II  tlie  TiHir  do 
oul«l  ^ivu  inc  n 
lit  I  niinlil  crcrp 
iiiii  niul  Hvo  tliu 
.  Ah  !  "  with  a 
end,  "  tlio  dt'Niro 
^nenr,  tlic  heart 
[i  after  old  ago 
th." 

tlic  lioart  alwajB 
ihion  in  a  dreamy 
irtuin  fell  hehind 
artcd  out  a  cloud 
tho  old  woiiian'il 
tho  heart  uIwbv§ 
1  slowly  as  he 
and  navo  to  the 
tho  Btaircaso  that 
3  Burre.  "Her 
loraut  old  soul,  is 

ago  long  past ; 
ho  heart  may  ho 
tor  all,  it  is  not 
ing  oiit,  it  is  U80. 
tat  tho  heart,  the 
one.  If  BO,  then 
lave  young  hearts, 
nit  little.  I  am 
i  I  am  older  than 
!e  lived  centuries, 

the  knowledge  of 
day  I  understand 
ed  time  since  the 

All  that  the  ro- 
ho  experiments  of 
ngy  and  mctai)hys- 
u  master  of.  What 
vo  lived  a  few  years 
ivo  the  experience 

0  is  power,  knowl- 
epcated  again  and 

1  up  the  winding 
lone  is  power,  but 
1  with  wealth  is 
ivo   toiled   all  the 

the  first ;  now," 
with  a  sharp  and 
)W  for  the  other.  I 
ho  power  is  within 
every  obstacle  and 
t  emoluments,  what 
jffers  to  her  realous 
science,  art,  are  all 
IB  means,  but  these 


pncrillticR  belong  to  fceblo  souIh  ;  he 
who  would  climb  nuiMt  unu  religioti  an  a 
ladik-r,  and  tho  ('hurch  im  his  tojistone 
of  power." 

lie  wont  on  rapidly,  flight  after  flight, 
never  piiUHing  (o  rest  for  a  moment,  IiIn 
body  as  erect,  liiN  Htep  as  firm,  uh  though 
ho  were  walking  on  level  (^roiiiul.  When 
he  reiiclied  tho  summit  of  tho  Tour  de 
Murro  and  stepped  out  on  tho  platform, 
he  seemed  nut  at  all  exhausted  from  IiIh 
great  exertion.  There  was  something 
in  tho  cloar  eyes,  tho  tightly  closed 
lips,  tho  firm  and  defiant  ste)),  that 
showed  tho  strength  of  the  man's  will. 
For  a  moment  ho  leaned  over  tho  para- 
pet and  looked  into  the  scpiaro  below. 
Thcro  seemed  to  be  sotno  unusual  com- 
motion ;  a  number  of  people  were  gath- 
ered before  tho  western  portal  of  the 
Cathedral,  and  several  mounted  gen- 
darmes were  galloping  across  tho  place. 
So  absorbed  was  he  in  his  ambitious 
scheming,  that  ho  scarce  noticed  this 
unwonted  stir  ;  and  if  ho  had,  he  would 
not  havo  been  curious  to  know  the 
cause.  His  gaze  wandered  away  from 
tho  scene  below  him  to  tho  banks  of 
the  Seine,  until  it  rested  upon  the  white 
turrets  of  the  Ch&toau  de  Clermont 
rising  distinct  above  tho  thick  forest 
tliat  surrounded  them.  A  sort  of  vin- 
dictive joy  sparkled  in  his  eyes,  and, 
clasping  his  hands  fiercely,  he  paced  tho 
platform  with  long,  rapid  strides.  **  Ah  ! 
there  is  tho  source  from  whence  must 
flow  my  golden  river  ;  step  by  step  I  urn 
approaching  it.  It  has  been  a  toilsome 
journey,  first  to  gain  knowledge,  then  to 
gain  the  esteem  and  confidence  of  sus- 
pecting humanity,  who  give  to  one 
grudgingly,  mite  by  mite,  doling  them 
out  as  a  miser  docs  his  cherished  hoard. 
But  what  right  have  I  to  complain  1  I 
who  was  an  outcast,  nameless,  friend- 
less, a  dependant  on  tho  bounty  of 
strangers,  wronged,  cheated  out  of  my 
birthright  and  inheritance,  commencing 
at  the  l)ase,  oven  in  the  dirt  and  mire  ! 
I  have  toiled  so  far  up  this  steep  ascent. 
I  am  now  above  the  level  of  the  herd. 
I  feel  the  breath  of  the  mountains  upon 
my  brow.  But  beyond  mo  are  still 
greater  heights  which  I  must  reach. 
The  path  is  dangerously  steep,  uncer- 
tain, almost  impracticable ;  but  I  am 
not    dismayed ;  I    will  persevere  and 


Htnnil  on  tho  topmost  summit.  An 
heroic  soul,  nn  unflinching  will,  is  im- 
pelled onward  by  ditlieulties  ;  tho 
gieater  they  are,  tho  more  desire  is 
there  to  cou(|uer  them.  How  I  liiivo 
delved,  how  1  havo  dug  into  the  miiies 
of  knowledge,  that  (  might  hud  tho 
rare  gems  below  tho  ken  of  HuperHciul 
seekers  !  1  have  explored  the  mysteiiiH 
of  tho  Cabala ;  that  won«l(!rful  siienco 
has  been  my  study  day  and  night ;  thu 
Zohar  is  my  code  ;  tho  languages  of  tho 

fMist,  most  hidden  among  the  thingH 
liddcn,  are  as  familiar  to  mo  iis  house- 
hold words.  Alchemy  has  revealed  to 
mo  its  secrets  and  its  marvellous  laws. 
Metaphysics  havo  become  to  me  i)ut  a 
repetition  of  commonplace  dogmas.  I 
havo  analyzed  all,  and  each  particle  in 
before  mo  separated  from  all  foreign 
matter.  I  can  weigh  them  in  the  mi- 
nutest scale,  and  my  nice  balance  is 
my  judgment.  Tho  ignorant  look  upon 
mo  as  a  sorcerer.  I  am  a  sorcerer,  for 
knowledge  is  sorcery.  Fabion  tho  can- 
on, at  twenty-five,  has  more  within  tho 
circle  of  his  brain  than  the  oldest  doc- 
tor of  the  schools.  Laua  Deo  for  such 
power.  My  poors  look  upon  mo  with 
amazement.  Honors  are  being  heaped 
\\\mn  mo.  Tho  Archbishop  has  made 
mo  a  canon  and  his  private  Hocrctary  ; 
through  this  channel  I  will  discover  all 
tho  secrets  of  tho  (church  and  State. 
Tho  old  Count  de  Clermont  is  dying, 
and  ho  has  chosen  mo  to  bo  tutr)r  and 
guardian  of  his  only  son ;  there  is  tho 
source  from  which  I  must  draw  my 
wealth.  I  will  avongo  my  mother  and 
reap  a  rich  harvest  from  the  fields  out 
of  which  she  was  driven.  It  is  but  a 
pace  from  a  canon  to  a  deacon,  and 
then  a  natural  gradation  to  an  arch- 
deacon, a  step  upward  to  a  bishop,  and 
the  hat  of  a  cardinal  docs  not  proas 
heavily  after  the  mitre  of  an  arch- 
bishop." 


PART  SECOND. 

AN   ASYLUM. 

The  platform  of  the  Tour  de  Burre 
was  a  favorite  ])romenade  of  Fabion  the 
canon.  First,  because  before  reaching 
it  there  was  a  difficulty  to  overcome. 


i 


I 


.  :.?aflyattfatoa^i^a>fefli»^!ita^>v:'i%!^^ 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


In  mounting  the  hundreds  of  steps,  ho 
tested  his  indomitable  will  and  his  phj-s- 
ical  strength.  Secondly,  it  presented  the 
greater  att..*action  of  being  above  the 
world,  and  consequently  isolated  and 
free  from  intrusion.  There  his  unfet- 
tered fancy  soared  highest,  shook  off, 
for  the  time,  the  shackles  with  which 
the  lower  world  and  his  necessary  in- 
tercourse with  men  heavily  trammelled 
him.  There  he  could  scheme  and  plan 
more  clearl}*,  because  the  fresh  breeze 
at  that  height  seemed  to  blow  away 
the  cobwebs  from  his  brain,  seemed  to 
quicken  nnd  strengthen  his  intellect, 
that  sometimes  became  a  little  dull  and 
weak  from  pouring  over  musty  old 
parchments  and  time-stained  manu- 
scripts. There,  when  he  worked  him- 
self up  to  a  frenzy  of  self-laudation  and 
anticipated  gloiy,  at  which  times  ho  de- 
sired to  hear  his  success  sounded  in  his 
own  cars,  he  could  shout  them  aloud, 
and  there  was  no  living  thing  to  listen, 
only  the  thousands  of  swallows  that 
built  in  every  niche,  and  they  woiud 
not  reveal  his  secrets.  There  he  could 
madden  himself  by  repeating  over  and 
over  the  wrongs  of  his  life,  by  doing 
which  he  fanned  a  fire  of  hate  and  re- 
venge that  he  never  allowed  to  become 
extinguished  ;  and  when  that  fire  some- 
times burned  too  fiercely,  threatening 
to  break  into  open  conflagration,  when 
the  strong  will  was  necessary  to  subdue 
and  deaden  it,  he  found  a  powerful  aid 
in  the  physical  exertion  required  to 
reach  the  spot,  where  alone  and  unmo- 
lested ho  could  bare  his  head  and  breast 
to  the  breeze,  shout,  curse,  wring  his 
hands,  and  tear  back  and  forth  like  an 
infuriated  tiger. 

There  were  tempests  in  this  man  that 
must  break  forth  at  times  and  rage 
with  fearful  strength,  but  no  living  be- 
ing had  ever  witnessed  them.  Only  the 
wandering  wind  and  the  moaning  sea 
had  heard  his  frenzied  cries,  and  they 
kept  their  secret. 

This  morning  he  had  hurried  there 
to  congratulate  himself  on  an  event 
which  he  considered  the  most  important 
of  his  life,  and  for  which  he  had  striven 
with  unwearied  diligence.  He  had  at 
last  succeeded,  after  many  rebuffs  and 
discouragements,  in  gaining  the  confi- 
dence and  friendship  of  the  Count  de 


Clermont,  who  was  dying,  and  who,  on 
that  very  morning,  had  sent  for  him, 
and  after  acknowledging,  in  words  that 
were  honey  to  the  listener,  his  admim- 
tion  of  his  superior  talents  and  his 
esteem  for  his  character,  had  besought 
him,  in  feeble  but  earnest  tones,  to  be- 
come the  guardian  and  tutor  of  his  only 
son,  who  would  soon  be  an  orphan,  nnd 
the  sole  survivor  of  the  family  of  Cler- 
mont. That  he,  Fabicn,  tiie  poor  young 
scholar,  should  be  chosen  from  among 
all  whom  the  Count  had  honored  with 
his  friendship,  was  indeed  a  proof  of 
confidence  rarely  bestowed.  A  few  more 
days  and  he  would  receive  into  his 
charge  this  child,  the  only  heir  to  the 
rich  estate  of  Clermont,  all  of  whose 
treasures  would  be  given  into  his  keep- 
ing ;  and  he  had  resolved  that  he  would 
guard  them  well,  for  when  that  which 
ho  had  so  long  coveted  was  once  within 
his  grasp  it  should  remain  there. 

"It  is  sooner  than  I  expected,  but 
not  too  soon,"  he  said,  as  he  gazed  at 
the  turrets  of  the  chateau,  with  greedy 
speculation  in  his  eyes  and  inexpressi- 
ble satisfaction  in  his  voice. 

So  absorbed  was  Fabien  with  his 
own  ambitious  plans,  that  he  did  not 
observe  he  was  no  longer  alone,  for 
suddenly  another  person  appeared  on 
the  platform,  who,  seeing  it  was  already 
occupied,  turned  to  flee ;  but  he  was  too 
late,  for  at  that  moment  Fabien  turned 
also,  and  their  eyes  met.  The  priest 
uttered  an  exclamation,  half  of  sur- 
prise, half  of  terror,  for  ho  had  never 
before  seen  such  an  object;  even  he, 
stoic  though  he  was,  could  scarce  believe 
it  to  be  human.  He  had  a  ghastly  face, 
covered  with  a  short,  bristling  beard, 
cropped  white  hair  standing  up  on 
his  head  as  if  in  mortal  fear;  wild, 
bloodshot  eyes,  and  drawn  lips,  parched 
and  blackened  with  fever  and  thirst,  re- 
vealing a  row  of  long  yellow  teeth  that 
snapped  together  like  a  hungry  wolf's. 
A  few  tattered  rags  that  had  once  been 
a  convict's  dress  partially  clothed  a 
gaunt,  meagre  form  that  was  bowed  as 
though  a  hundred  years  pressed  upon 
it,  and  his  bare,  emaciated  feet  and 
bony  hands  were  covered  with  dirt  and 
bruises. 

"Mon  Dieu!  who  are  you?  and,  in 
the  name  of  Heaven,  where  did  you 


Tyiy^mmVf^: . 


•■tmif-Kt'i.'Hi'HWi: 


g,  and  who,  on 
[  sent  for  hUn, 
;,  in  words  that 
ler,  his  admim- 
alenta   and  his 
r,  had  besought 
8t  tones,  to  bc- 
;utor  of  his  only 
an  orphan,  nnd 
family  of  Olcr- 
the  ])oor  young 
icn  from  among 
d  honored  with 
leed  a  proof  of 
■ed.    A  few  more 
receive   into  his 
)nly  heir  to  the 
it,  all  of  whose 
in  into  his  keep- 
ed  that  he  would 
fhen  that  which 
was  once  within 
main  there. 
I  expected,  but 
1,  as  he  gazed  at 
teau,  with  greedy 
s  and  inexpressi- 
voice. 

Fabien   with  his 
that  he  did  not 
onger   alone,   for 
•son  appeared  on 
ing  it  was  already 
} ;  but  he  was  too 
snt  Fabien  turned 
met.     The  priest 
ion,   half   of  sur- 
for  he  had  never 
object;   even  he, 
3uld  scarce  believe 
lad  a  ghastly  face, 
,  bristling  beard, 
standing    up   on 
lortal   fear;  wild, 
rawn  lips,  parched 
jver  and  thirst,  re- 
yellow  teeth  that 
a  a  hungry  wolf's, 
hat  had  once  been 
artially  clothed  a 
hat  was  bowed  as 
ears  pressed  upon 
naciated   feet  and 
sred  with  dirt  and 

are  youl  and,  in 
m,  where  did  you 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


come  from?"  gasped  Fabien,  after  a 
moment's  survey. 

The  poor  wretch  replied  not  a  word, 
but  dropped  upon  his  knees  as  though 
his  lower  limbs  were  palsied,  and,  clasp- 
ing his  hands,  raised  his  haggard  face 
with  eyes  so  full  of  anguish  and  en- 
treaty that  they  smote  the  heart  of  Fa- 
bien with  sudden  pain.  He  did  not 
like  to  be  so  easily  softened  and  touched 
to  pity,  so  it  was  with  no  very  gentle 
gr.isp  that  lie  took  the  intruder  by  the 
shoulder,  and,  shaking  him,  said  again 
stcnilj',  "  Who  are  you  t " 

The  man's  head  and  hands  foil 
despondently,  and  tears  gathered  in  his 
eyes  as  ho  replied  with  a  heavy,  long- 
drawn  sigh,  and  with  hopelessness  in  his 
voice,  "  I  am  an  escaped  convict.  I 
have  sought  an  asylum  here,  here  in 
the  house  of  God.  You  are  his  priest, 
and  you  will  not  betray  me?  I  am 
starving,"  he  cried,  starting  from  his 
attitude  of  despair,  while  his  teeth 
gleamed  between  his  parched  lips, — 
"  I  am  starving !  and  how  am  I  to  get 
food  1  Here  there  is  nothing  but  bare 
stones  !  "  And  he  glanced  around  with 
famished  scrutiny. 

"Starving,"  repeated  Fabien  in  a 
softened  voice ;  "  poor  wretch  !  what 
crime  has  brought  you  to  this?" 

The  creature  tottered  upright,  and, 
leaning  heavily  against  the  stone  balus- 
trade for  support,  laid  his  emaciated 
hand  on  the  arm  of  the  priest,  and 
said  in  a  husky  whisper,  "  Listen,  and 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  never  yet 
confessed  to  any  one.  I  have  com- 
mitted no  crime  ;  another  sinned,  and 
I,  to  keep  an  oath  made  to  one  I 
loved,  suffer  the  penalty.  For  four 
years,  for  four  dead  years,  I  have  been 
chained  and  driven  like  a  beast ;  I  have 
suffered  hunger,  cold,  and  heat ;  I  have 
been  bound  to  a  creature  I  loathed ;  I 
have  cursed  the  night,  and  longed  for 
day,  and  when  the  day  came  I  cursed 
it  and  longed  for  the  night.  All  the 
slow  moments  of  four  years  have  dragged 
along  in  agony.  I  have  become  old 
before  my  time,  bowed  and  cnished, 
scorned  and  smitten  even  of  God.  And 
yet  I  have  endured  all  this  to  keep  an 
oath  I  made  to  one  dying,  to  serve  one 
I  loved  more  than  life  or  liberty.  It 
wanted  four  days  to  complete  four  years, 


when  I  escaped  from  what  was  to  havo 
been  half  a  life  of  cruel  servitude.  I 
went  back  to  my  home.  It  was  desolate 
and  deserted.  My  wife  was  dead,  and 
my  child  was  in  the  house  of  a  stranger. 
I  stole  my  child.  She  did  not  know 
me,  for  she  was  but  a  babe  when  I  was 
taken  to  prison  j  and  she  feared  nio, 
and  struggled  to  free  herself  from  my 
arms,  and  wept  and  implored  to  be  taken 
back  to  those  who  had  robbed  mo  of  her 
love.  I  have  walked  day  and  night, 
carrying  her  in  my  arms.  Avoiding  the 
highways,  I  have  toiled  over  rough  fields, 
through  forests,  across  mountains  and 
hills,  under  the  burning  sun  and  tlio 
chilling  dews  ;  sometimes,  believing  I 
was  pursued,  I  have  hidden  in  hedges, 
in  ditches,  and  in  caves.  My  feet  havo 
been  wounded  by  the  broken  stones  and 
rough  ways.  My  hands  have  been  torn  by 
the  thorns  and  brambles  through  which 
I  have  forced  a  passage.  I  have  begged 
morsels  of  black  bread  from  the  shep- 
herds and  peasants,  I  have  gathered 
fruit  and  berries,  but  I  have  eaten  none 
myself,  so  that  she  should  not  suffer 
hunger.  I  have  given  her  the  water  I 
drained  from  the  scanty  rivulets,  while 
I  famished  with  the  thiiot  of  fever. 
And  yet  my  child  fears  me  and  looks 
upon  me  with  horror.  To-day  I  could 
go  no  farther.  My  strength  failed,  and 
God's  temple,  that  is  closed  to  none, 
offered  me  an  asylum.  I  thought  among 
some  of  the  dark  passages,  the  cells,  the 
towers,  or  even  the  vaults,  I  might  find 
a  hiding-place  from  the  searching  eye 
of  justice.  But  I  must  have  food  for 
my  child  and  myself,  for  I  am  fainting 
with  hunger,  and  these  bare  stones 
offer  nothing." 

He  had  spoken  with  a  desperate  eager- 
ness. His  features  were  convulsed,  and 
his  voice  was  broken  with  sobs  that 
ended  in  a  prayer  as  he  clasped  his  hands 
and  fell  again  on  his  knees,  crying, 
"  Bread !  monseigneur,  bread  for  my 
starving  child ! " 


PART  THIRD. 

AIHEB. 

"Where  is  she?"  inquired  Fabien, 
ia  a  suffocated  voice,  for  he  felt  like  one 


''sms^^^-mimmAttkimmmm»'iMm^imsi^mM^m0'''^ 


e 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


in  ft  nightmftro,  who  arouses  himself 
only  by  a  strong  exertion  of  liis  will. 
In  all  the  suftering  he  had  witnessed,  he 
had  never  seen  a  human  being  so  ut- 
terly crushed  and  wretched,  and  he  had 
never  before  listened  to  a  tale  of  woo 
recited  witli  such  pathos  and  despair. 
"  Where  is  she  1 "  he  repeated ;  for  the 
man's  head  had  fallen  on  his  breast,  and 
he  seemed  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  At  the 
priest's  qiiestion  he  looked  up,  and 
pointed  dilently  down  the  stairs  to  the 
bell  tower. 

Concealed  in  an  angle  of  the  tower  by 
a  great  coil  of  rope,  and  almost  covered 
by  a  huge  projecting  gargoyle,  carved  in 
the  form  of  a  monster,  crouched  a  child 
of  about  five  years.  She  was  amusing 
hereclf  by  thrusting  a  stone  into  the 
open  jaws  of  the  monster,  which  rolled 
out  directly,  while  with  a  dreary  signifi- 
cance she  persisted  in  returning  what 
could  not  be  eaten  to  the  mouth  that 
could  not  eat,  repeating  over  and  over 
in  a  pitiful,  whining  voice,  "Give  me 
something  to  oat !  Give  me  something 
to  eat!" 

The  moment  her  eyes  fell  upon  Fa- 
bien  she  dropped  the  stone,  and,  spring- 
ing toward  him,  seized  his  hand  and 
cried  imploringly,  "  Give  me  something 
to  cat ! " 

The  touch  of  her  hand,  or  the  wist- 
ful expression  of  the  eyes  raised  to  his, 
visibly  affected  the  priest ;  for  he  said  in 
the  gentlest  and  kindest  voice,  "  Pauvre 
petite!  Have  patience  for  a  few  mo- 
ments and  yo\i  shall  be  fed  ;  remain  here 
with  yotir  father,  and  I  will  fetch  you 
some  food  at  once." 

"  My  father !  Ho  is  not  my  father." 
And  she  drew  up  her  little  mouth  with 
scorn,  as  her  eye  followed  the  glance 
Fabien  directed  toward  the  miserable 
creature  at  his  side.  "  He  is  not  my 
father.  He  is  a  thief  who  stole  me  from 
my  home,  where  I  had  a  bed  to  sleep 
in  and  plenty  to  eat  I  hate  him  !  I 
hate  him ! "  she  added  vehemently, 
while  she  still  clung  to  the  priest's  hand. 

The  convict  said  not  a  word,  but  the 
large  tears  rolled  slowly  over  his  hag- 
gard face,  and  dropped  one  by  one  on 
the  pitiful  hands  he  clasped  in  silent 
entreaty. 

Fabien  glanced  fr'om  one  to  the  other, 
his  heart  filled  with  commiseration  for 


both,  while  ho  gently  tried  to  disengage 
his  hand  from  the  clinging  clasp  of  the 
little  child. 

At  that  moment  the  sound  of  voices 
and  the  tramping  of  feet  mounting  the 
stairs,  with  now  and  then  the  clanking 
of  a  spur  and  the  clashing  of  a  sabre, 
told  that  the  new-comers  were  armed. 

Tho  face  of  the  poor  convict  gi'cw 
more  ghastly  if  possible,  and  a  groan 
burst  from  his  full  heart  as  ho  said, 
"  It  is  the  gendarmes.  They  are  after 
mo.  Where  shall  I  conceal  myself? 
0,  save  me,  save  me  ! " 

Fabien  glanced  around.  There  was 
no  place  safe  from  the  intrusion  of  the 
law.  His  first  impulse  was  to  hide  the 
poor  wretch,  but  where  1  Below  there 
were  numbers  of  dark  cells  and  vaults 
where  he  would  be  as  secure  as  though 
he  were  hidden  in  his  grave ;  but  here 
all  was  open  and  exposed  to  the  light  of 
day.  They  could  not  go  down,  because 
of  the  officers  who  were  ascending,  and 
above  them  was  nothing  but  the  plat- 
form, parapet,  and  blue  heavens. 

A  few  feet  below  the  platform  of  tho 
bell-tower  projected  a  ledge  of  stono 
some  fifteen  inches  wide,  that  formed 
the  top  of  a  carved  cornice.  Looking 
eagerly  from  one  of  the  open  arches, 
the  hunted  creature  caught  sight  of 
this.  If  he  could  drop  down  to  it  and 
lie  close  against  the  face  of  the  tower, 
he  might  escape  detection.  To  think, 
in  his  case,  was  to  act.  He  clasped  the 
reluctant  child  in  a  frenzied  embrace, 
kissed  the  hand  of  the  priest,  and  then 
disappeared  through  tho  open  arch. 

Fabien  watched  with  a  shudder  the 
thin,  brown  fingers  clutch  convulsively 
the  projecting  or5)ament8,  as  he  slid 
down  to  his  terrible  hiding-place.  His 
feet  touched  the  ledge,  and  he  writhed, 
serpent-like,  to  a  prostrate  position.  As 
his  eye  fell  on  the  dizzy  depths  below 
him,  the  priest  saw  a  shiver  pass  through 
his  battered  frame. 

Before  Fabien  had  fairly  turned  from 
the  open  arch,  the  helmeted  heads  of 
tho  gendarmes  appeared  above  tho 
stairs.  The  leader  started  back  in 
astonishment  when  he  found  his  way 
barred  by  the  tall  black-robed  form  of 
the  young  priest.  However,  he  touched 
his  helmet  respectfully,  and  said,  while 
he  directed  his  searching  glance  into 


,'«■.--.  i.^j,^'.tj'.u.M-ia.im'Si" ' 


led  to  disengage 
ug  clusp  of  tlio 

sound  of  voices 
3t  mounting  tho 
icn  the  clanking 
bing  of  a  sabre, 
B  were  armed. 
)r  convict  gi'cw 
c,  and  a  groan 
art  as  ho  said, 
Tlicy  are  after 
jonccal  mj'sclf? 

id.  There  was 
intrusion  of  the 
was  to  hide  the 
t  Below  there 
cells  and  vaults 
cure  as  though 
^ave ;  but  here 
1  to  the  light  of 

0  down,  because 
)  ascending,  and 
g  but  tho  plat- 
heavens, 
platform  of  the 
ledge  of  stone 
le,  that  formed 
rnice.  Looking 
he  open  arches, 
ftught   sight   of 

down  to  it  and 
le  of  the  tower, 
ion.     To  think. 

He  clasped  the 
enzied  embrace, 
priest,  and  then 
10  open  arch. 

1  a  shudder  the 
;ch  convulsively 
nts,  as  he  slid 
ding-place.  His 
and  he  writhed, 
ite  position.  As 
y  depths  below 
ver  pass  through 

irly  turned  from 
meted  heads  of 
red  above  tho 
tarted  back  in 
found  his  way 
k-robed  form  of 
ever,  he  touched 
,  and  said,  while 
ing  glance  into 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


every  comer  of  the  bell-towor,  "  We  are 
in  pursuit  of  an  escaped  convict,  who, 
we  are  assured,  took  refuge  here  a  short 
time  ago.     Have  you  seen  him  ?" 

Fabien  did  not  answer  at  once ;  and 
■while  he  hesitated,  one  of  tho  men 
nudged  another,  saying,  in  a  low  voice, 
with  a  significant  wink,  "  We  have  him 
now,  tho  priest  won't  dare  to  lie." 

Fabien  did  not  fear  a  lie,  but  he  did 
fear  being  detected  in  one,  and  there- 
fore he  did  not  reply  to  tho  direct  ques- 
tion of  the  officer,  who  fixed  upon  him 
his  inquisitorial  eye.  There  was  no 
evading ;  so  he  said,  in  a  firm  and  de- 
fiant voice,  "  Yes,  I  have  seen  him."   " 

"Where  is  he  1" 

"I  am  not  obliged  to  answer  that 
question." 

"  What ! "  said  the  officer,  taking  a 
high  tone,  "  ia  it  possible  you  wish  to 
defraud  justice  by  assisting  a  condemned 
convict  to  escape  ] " 

"  I  have  offered  him  no  assistance," 
Replied  Fabien,  stolidly. 

Again  the  officer  resorted  to  the 
majesty  of  the  law.  "Justice  demands 
that  you  should  reveal  his  hiding-place. 
Did  he  descend  ] " 

"  He  descended,"  replied  the  priest, 
curtly. 

"  How  long  since  1 " 

"  A  few  moments  ago." 

"  That  is  not  true,"  said  the  officer, 
Bententiously,  —  "  that  is  not  true.  My 
men  have  been  stationed  below,  and 
every  avenue  of  escape  has  been  guard- 
ed since  he  entered  the  door  leading  to 
this  tower." 

By  this  time  four  or  five  more  armed 
men  had  mounted  to  the  platform,  each 
equally  eager  to  be  the  first  to  discover 
the  hiding-place  of  the  poor  trembling 
wretch. 

"  Here  is  the  child,"  cried  one,  as  his 
eye  fell  upon  the  little  girl,  almost 
hidden  by  the  mantle  of  the  priest. 

"  Yes,  he  carried  a  child  in  his  arms," 
said  another;  "here  is  the  child,  but 
where  is  the  man  1 " 

A  feeling  of  terror  began  to  take 
possession  of  the  ignorant  gendarmes; 
they  thought  some  singular  transfor- 
mation had  taken  place,  and  that  the 
priest  and  the  convict  were  one  and 
the  same. 

The  officer,  seeing  the  confusion  of  his 


men,  determined  to  make  another  effort 
to  solve  the  enigma.  Taking  hold  of 
the  impish-looking  little  child,  who  still 
clung  to  Fabien's  mantle,  he  placed  her 
before  him,  and  raising  his  finger  threat- 
eningly, said,  in  a  voice  of  awful  majesty, 
"Remember.  Nothing  but  the  truth. 
Where  is  your  father  1 "  , 

"  In  Chateauroux,"  replied  the  child, 
gravely. 

Whereupon,  in  spite  of  tho  majesty  of 
the  law,  all  laughed,  except  the  priest  and 
the  questioner.  The  child's  countenance 
never  changed  as  she  turned  her  great 
eyes  seriously  from  one  to  the  other. 
The  officer  looked  sternly  at  his  men, 
and  said,  "  No  trifling  ! "  then  to  the 
child  in  the  same  tone  of  command, 
"  Listen  again.     What  is  your  name?" 

"Aimie." 

"  Who  brought  you  here  1" 

"  A  wicked  man." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"There,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the 
arch  through  which  the  convict  had 
disappeared. 


PART  FOURTH. 

ASSISTINO  TO   CAPTURE  ONE's   SELF. 

Fabien  sprang  at  the  child,  dashing 
down  the  little  hand  that  pointed  to 
the  arch ;  but  he  was  too  late,  all  saw 
the  action,  and  all  rushed  simultane- 
ously to  the  opening. 

"Yes,  here  he  is,. sure  enough,"  came 
from  the  one  who  was  so  fortunate  as 
to  thrust  his  head  out  first  and  there- 
by to  make  the  important  discovery. 
"  Here  he  is,  but  morhleu  !  how  are  we 
to  get  at  him  1 " 

"  PreciaemerU,  how  are  we  to  get  at 
him  1 "  said  another,  peeping  out.  "  No 
one  will  risk  his  life  by  going  down 
there  for  him." 

And  now  each  one  was  as  anxious  to 
shirk  the  glory  of  the  capture  as  he 
had  been  before  to  desire  it. 

"  Is  there  really  much  danger  1"  said 
the  officer,  venturing  forward  and  look- 
ing down,  while  he  debated  in  his  mind 
whether  he  had  not  gained  enough 
honor  during  the  expedition  by  the 
clever  way  in  which  he  had  led  the 
miserable  little  child  to  point  out  the 


8 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


hiding-place  of  her  father.  "I  will 
give  some  one  else  a  chance  to  distin- 
guish himself,"  ho  thought,  as  ho  drew 
back. 

By  tho  time  the  poor  convict  knew 
ho  was  discovered,  the  strongest  desire 
in  his  heart  was  to  bo  rescued  from  his 
perilous  situation,  for  ho  could  not  sup- 
port his  cramiHid  and  painful  position, 
and  he  felt  that  to  move  was  to  plunge 
liimsclf  into  the  abyss  below.  The  de- 
sire for  liberty  is  tlie  strongest  feeling 
of  our  nature,  next  to  the  desire  for 
life,  and  that  is  paramount  to  all  else. 
Feeling  that  death  was  inevitable  if  he 
remained  there,  the  poor  wretch  was  now 
as  anxious  to  bo  captured  as  he  was  before 
to  evade  it;  but  how  to  effect  it,  was 
tho  question  that  floated  through  his 
confused  brain.  If  he  writhed  to  an 
upright  position  and  stretched  his  arms 
to  their  extreme  length,  he  could  not 
reach  tho  projecting  ledge  from  which 
he  had  dropped,  and  tho  face  of  the 
smooth  stone  presented  nothing  to  cling 
to.  Despair  took  possession  of  his  soul. 
Would  they  abandon  him  to  his  fate, 
starving,  famishing,  suspended  above  a 
frightful  obyasl  The  galleys,  the  chains, 
the  toil  under  the  scorching  sun,  the 
privation,  the  misery,  anything  was 
better  than  tho  horrible  death  he  con- 
templated from  his  dizzy  height. 

When  tho  officer  drew  back  with  his 
generous  resolve,  Fabien  drew  near  and 
looked  down  again  on  the  suffering 
man ;  while  the  child,  always  at  his  side, 
peeped  timidly  over,  and  then  with  a 
sigh  of  relief  said,  in  a  voice  loud 
enough  to  fall  distinctly  upon  the  ear 
of  her  father,  "  I  am  so  glad  he  is 
♦here,  and  that  no  one  will  help  to  get 
him  up." 

Again  Fabien  saw  a  shiver  convulse 
the  poor  creature.  "  3Ialheureuse  /  "  he 
cried,  pushing  the  child  away ;  "  are 
you  an  imp  of  Satan  1 "  Then  turning 
to  the  men,  "  Some  of  you  throw  a  rope 
to  this  unhappy  wretch,  or  in  a  moment 
his  brains  will  be  dashed  out  on  the 
pavement  below." 

"  0  yes,  a  rope,"  they  all  cried. 
"Why  did  we  not  think  of  that  at 
first  1" 

In  a  moment  the  active  executors  of 
justice  appropriated  a  part  of  the  coil 
attached  to  the  bell,  and  lowered  it  to 


the  wretched  convict,  who  clutched  it 
convulsively,  thereby  eagerly  assisting 
to  capture  himself.  As  soon  as  ho  was 
drawn  to  tho  platform  of  the  tower,  tho 
heroic  officer  stepped  forward  and,  lay- 
ing his  hand  upon  tho  exhausted 
man,  pronounced  him  his  prisoner. 
Weak  from  fasting,  fear,  and  the  r.ior- 
tion  to  save  himself,  ho  made  no  re- 
sistance ;  but  there  was  sumething 
more  touching  than  resistance  in  tho 
look  of  pitiful  reproach  ho  tunied  upon 
Fabien,  as  ho  said,  "  You  betrayed  me  1 " 

The  priest  did  not  reply  ;  he  preferred 
that  tho  convict  should  believe  it  to 
have  been  he,  rather  than  the  child, 
who  made  known  his  hiding-place. 

"  No,  it  was  not.  monseigueur,"  re- 
plied the  officer  in  a  voice  of  severe 
reproof.  "  Much  to  my  surprise,  ho 
tried  to  defend  justice  by  refusing  to 
tell  us  where  you  were.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  the  child,  you  would  have  es- 
caped, and  we  should  have  had  our 
labor  for  nothing,  and  tho  majesty  of 
the  law  would  have  been  dishonored, 
and  justice  defrauded,  and  —  and  —  " 
Here  tho  indignant  speaker's  eloquence 
failed  him,  and  he  took  refuge  in  a  fit  of 
coughing. 

"  Was  it  my  child  who  betrayed 
me  1 "  said  the  convict  in  broken  tones. 

"She  says  she  is  not  your  child," 
continued  tho  officer,  who  had  recovered 
his  voice.  "  If  she  is  not  your  child, 
what  right  have  you  with  her  1 " 

"  0  mon  capitaine  !  she  is  my  child," 
he  cried,  wringing  his  hands  with  an- 
guish. "  But  she  does  not  know  it.  She 
was  a  babe  when  I  went  to  prison,  and 
it  is  four  years ;  she  does  not  know  mo ; 
beside,  look  at  me ! "  ,  And  he  glanced  at 
his  tatters  with  deplorable  self-abasemeftit. 
"  I  am  a  horror  to  myself,  it  is  no  won- 
der tho  child  fears  me."  Then,  covering 
his  face  with  his  hands,  he  burst  into 
sobs  that  shook  him  as  though  he  were 
a  reed  swayed  by  tho  wind. 

"Come,  that  is  enough,"  said  tho 
officer,  turning  his  back  to  his  men; 
"you  must  go  with  us,  the  law  must 
bo  enforced." 

"Yes,  the  law  must  be  enforced," 
echoed  the  others. 

"  Come  here,  my  child,  come  to  your 
father,"  said  the  prisoner,  trying  to 
smile  encouragingly  as  he  held  out  his 


ho  clutched  it 
gcrly  assisting 
soon  as  ho  was 
the  tower,  tho 
ward  and,  lay- 
ho  exhausted 
his  prisoner, 
and  the  r-ior- 
I  made  no  ro- 
as  something 
istance  in  tho 
10  turned  upon 
betrayed  me  1 " 
f ;  he  preferred 
.  believe  it  to 
han  the  child, 
iding-place. 
nseigneur,"  re- 
roicc  of  severe 


Y  surprise, 


ho 


by  refusing  to 
If  it  had  not 
would  have  es- 
have  had  our 
the  majesty  of 
len  dishonored, 
and  —  and  —  " 
ker's  eloquence 
efuge  in  a  fit  of 

who  betrayed 
1  broken  tones. 
it  your  child," 
0  had  recovered 
not  your  child,' 
hherV 
e  is  my  child," 
[lands  with  an- 
(t  know  it.   She 

to  prison,  and 
3  not  know  mo ; 
id  he  glanced  at 
)  self-abasement. 
;lf,  it  is  no  won- 

Then,  covering 

he  burst  into 

though  he  were 

nd. 

ugh,"  said   the 

t  to  his   men; 
the  law  must 

;  be  enforced," 

1,  come  to  your 
)ner,  trying  to 
he  held  out  his 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPE.UI. 


arms.  Tho  smile  wos  a  ghastly  effort, 
moi-u  pitiful  than  his  sobs. 

Fabion  pushed  tho  reluctant  little 
creature  toward  him  ;  ho  clutched  her, 
and  drew  her  to  his  embrace,  almost 
stifling  her  with  tears  and  kisses. 

"Poor  little  child,"  ho  said  with 
intense  love  in  his  voice ;  "  my  precious 
AinicSc,  my  little  darling,  you  have  for- 
gotten your  poor  father.  Once  you  loved 
mc  so  you  would  cry  when  I  left  you, 
and  hold  out  your  little  dimpled  hands 
and  scream  with  joy  when  I  returned  ; 
and  when  I  took  you  in  my  arms  you 
would  rub  your  soft  cheek  against  my 
hair  and  beard.  0  my  God  !  I  have 
folt  your  loving  caresses,  your  soft  arms 
around  my  neck,  for  all  these  years. 
Tliat  memory  has  kept  me  alivo.  It 
has  been  ligiit  and  air,  bread  and  water, 
hope  and  faith,  all,  all ;  for  that  I  did 
not  sink  into  a  besotted  brute.  I 
strovo  to  keep  alive  all  that  was  good 
in  my  nature  ;  morning  and  night  I 
prayed  to  God  that  ho  would  not 
obliterate  that  memory  from  my  heart. 
Sometimes,  when  the  weight  of  my 
chains  pressed  too  heavily,  and  I  feared 
my  reason  would  leave  me  forever,  and 
I  should  be  in  utter  darkness,  the 
thought  of  thy  bright  little  face  would 
lighten  all  around  mo.  It  was  for  thee 
I  tried  to  escape,  that  I  might  hold  thee 
once  again  to  my  heart,  that  I  might 
feel  thy  little  face  pressed  against  mine, 
that  I  might  hear  thee  say,  Father.  But 
thou  hast  forgotten  me,  and  thou  hast 
only  fear  and  horror  of  me.  I  must  go 
back  again  to  my  chains,  to  suffering, 
despair,  and  death,  with  the  knowledge 
that  my  child  fears  me  and  hates  me. 
Does  not  your  little  he.irt  tell  you  I  am 
your  father]  Is  there  no  memory  of 
your  sweet  infancy  to  plead  for  me  % " 
he  implored.  "  My  heart  is  breaking  ! 
My  child,  tell  me  but  once  you  love 
mc,  call  me  father  but  once,  and  I  will 
go  back  to  my  imprisonment  happy." 

"  No,  no,  you  are  not  my  father,  and 
I  do  not  love  you,"  she  cried,  passion- 
ately struggling  to  free  herself  from  his 
embrace.  "  I  love  my  good  papa  in 
Chateauroux,  and  I  want  to  go  back  to 
him.  I  am  afraid  of  you  and  I  hate 
you." 

The  countenance  of  the  convict  fell 
into  settled  hopelessness;  he  put  the 


child  away  from  him  suddenly,  and 
turning  toward  Fabien,  who  stood  witli 
bent  head  and  folded  arms,  so  absorbed 
in  thought  as  to  seem  uumiudful  of  what 
was  passing,  ho  said  in  a  voice  of  intense 
entreaty  :  "  Monseigneur,  have  pity  on 
mo ;  you  see  how  my  heart  is  torn,  you 
have  witnessed  my  agony ;  for  the  love 
of  God,  take  care  of  my  child.  Do  not 
let  her  come  to  want  and  sin ;  teach  her 
to  be  virtuous ;  never  speak  to  her  of  her 
father,  it  is  better  she  should  not  know 
what  he  has  been.  I  leave  her  to  you. 
If  I  survive  the  term  of  my  imprison- 
ment, I  will  demand  her  from  you.  If 
death  frees  me  from  my  sufferings,  here- 
after, in  the  presence  of  God,  you  must 
account  to  me  for  my  child." 

Without  looking  at  Aim^e,  who  had 
drawn  near  the  officer  and  was  playing 
with  the  tassel  of  his  sash,  he  tottered 
to  the  head  of  the  staircase  and  began 
to  descend. 

The  men  gathered  near  the  arch  were 
looking  persistently  toward  the  Seine, 
while  the  officer  seemed  to  be  clearing 
his  vision  from  some  obstruction.  When 
they  saw  the  convict  turn  to  go  down, 
they  touched  the  fronts  of  their  helmeta 
to  the  priest,  and  followed  their  prisoner. 


PART  FIFTH. 

A   STKANOE  LEGACY. 

Fabien  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
with  feelings  of  mingled  distrust,  pity, 
and  dislike  at  the  child  thus  suddenly 
thrust  upon  him. 

"What  am  1  to  do  with  herl"  he 
thought.  "  Such  an  unfeeling  little 
wretch,  and  such  a  strange-looking  ob- 
ject. She  is  so  ugly  one  can  never  love 
her,  and  she  is  so  wicked  one  can  scarcely 
pity  her.  What  am  I  to  do  with  her  t 
She  is  certainly  a  most  troublesome 
legacy  to  bo  left  to  a  priest." 

When  he  thought  she  was  a  strange 
looking  object,  he  thought  correctly ;  for 
a  more  impish,  weird-looking  littlo  crea- 
ture, with  folded  hands  and  ridiculously 
grave  face,  never  disturbed  the  peace  of 
a  celibate. 

Her  head  was  too  large  and  too  well 
developed  for  her  body ;  her  great  eyes 


■^'';»J<VfeWWi.*iJ^.^JM^i4:Wl);fr,5y^\^\it,<r,:;,j 


1 


ii 


fl 


I 


-<^ 


10 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


had  tho  thoughtful,  anxious  expression 
of  one  well  acquainted  with  life  and  its 
cares ;  her  lips,  serious  and  firmly  closed, 
had  no  line  or  curve  of  dimpled  child- 
hood ;  her  forehead  was  low  and  full,  and 
seemed  already  to  bear  traces  of  deep 
thought ;  yet  there  was  something  in 
her  face  that  attracted  the  interest  of 
tho  priest.  He  saw  plainly  stamped 
there  embryo  passions  of  startling  in- 
tensity. On  the  little  face  were  written 
a  strong  will,  powerful  cunning,  and 
a  deep  intelligence,  such  as  are  rarely 
seen  in  a  child.  There  was  something 
exceedingly  graceful  in  her  move- 
ments, in  spite  of  her  disproportionate 
head,  —  a  clinging,  serpent-like  charm 
that  seemed  to  coil  around  the  priest 
against  his  inclination.  There  was  a 
treacherous  softness  and  sweetness  in 
her  voice,  an  inscrutable  puzzling  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes,  that  always  evaded 
his  glance,  a  something  in  her  tout  en- 
semble that  disturbed  and  fascinated 
him. 

While  Fabien  looked  at  her,  making 
his  mental  estimate  of  her  character, 
Bhe  was  also  gravely  surveying  him 
from  head  to  foot.  Her  eyes  wandered 
slowly  over  his  handsome  face,  down  his 
black-robed,  elegant  figure,  to  the  small 
feet  that  stood  so  firmly,  and  turned 
outward  at  just  the  right  angle.  In 
appearance  he  was  a  most  prepossessing 
canon,  and  the  child  felt  it,  for  she 
drew  near  him  and  slipped  her  little 
hand  into  his,  saying,  "You  are  so 
handsome  I  like  you,  and  I  will  go 
with  you."  Then  she  added  in  a  more 
childish  tone,  as  nature  asserted  itself, 
"  I  am  so  hungry.  Will  you  give  me 
something  to  eat  1 " 

"  Yes,  come  with  me,  and  you  shall 
eat  your  fill,  although  you  deserve  to 
starve  and  die,  you  wicked  little  crea- 
ture," he  said,  impatiently,  as  he  drew 
her  after  him  down  the  stairs.  •'  Why 
did  you  tell  the  soldiers  where  your 
father  was  1" 

"  Because  I  wanted  them  to  take  him 
away,"  she  replied,  firmly.  "  I  am  glad 
he  is  gone.  You  will  give  me  some- 
thing to  eat,  and  a  bed  to  sleep  in, 
won't  youl  and  let  me  stay  with  you 
always.  I  like  you  even  better  than 
my  papa  in  Chateauroux.  He  is  old  and 
poor,  but  he  was  good  to  mo,  and  gave 


me  a  goat,  and  plenty  to  cat ;  but  that 
wicked  old  man  took  me  away  to  starve 
me,  and  made  me  sleep  on  tho  ground 
with  nothing  but  his  ragged,  dirty  jacket 
to  cover  me  ;  and  all  day  I  cried  for 
my  papa  and  my  little  goat,  and  ho 
would  not  take  me  back,  but  walked 
always  so  fast,  telling  me  we  should  soon 
come  to  the  sea,  where  we  shoidd  find  a 
great  ship,  and  afterward  plenty  to  eat 
in  another  country  across  the  water. 
Now  I  am  glad  the  soldiers  did  not  let 
him  go  any  farther,  because  I  have  found 
you,  and  I  like  you ;  you  are  not  a  bit 
like  Monsieur  le  Cur6  in  Chutcauroux  ; 
he  is  fat  and  ugly,  but  you  are  so  hand- 
some." And  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the 
face  of  the  priest  with  such  a  look  of 
earnest  admiration  that  he  almost 
blushed.  Flattery  even  from  a  child, 
was  pleasant  to  him ;  ho  had  known  so 
little  of  the  sweet  amenities  of  life,  that 
its  newness  charmed  him,  and  softened 
his  heart  to  the  little  serpent  who  was 
creeping  into  it  even  without  his  knowl- 
edge and  against  his  will. 

When  Fabien  crossed  the  nave  to  the 
eastern  portal  it  seemed  as  though  he 
had  been  a  long  time  away,  and  that 
something  had  changed  in  his  life.  A 
feeling  like  a  nightmare  himg  around 
him,  and  he  would  almost  have  believed 
the  whole  scene  to  have  been  a  dream, 
or  the  working  of  a  diseased  imagina- 
tion, if  it  had  not  been  for  the  little 
creature  who  trotted  at  his  side.  The 
old  woman  at  the  door  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation of  surprise,  and  crossed  her- 
self, when  he  raised  the  curtain  and 
pushed  the  child  out  before  him.  She 
did  not  know  what  had  transpired  at 
the  western  portal,  by  which  the  gen- 
darmes had  entered,  so  she  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  capture  of  the  convict,  and 
consequently  could  not  understand 
where  the  canon  had  found  the  child. 

"  You  did  not  get  her  from  Heaven," 
she  exclaimed,  while  she  regarded  the 
sudden  apparition  with  fear  and  curi- 
osity; "no,  you  did  not  get  her  from 
Heaven,  for  she  looks  as  though  she 
came  from  below.  I  am  afraid  she  is  a 
changeling ! "  And  she  crossed  herself 
again. 

Fabien  smiled  as  he  said,  "  I  found 
her  in  the  bell-tower,  feeding  a  water- 
spout with  stone.     She  may  have  como 


1 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


11 


it ;  but  thnt 
ray  to  starve 

tl»c  ground 

,  dirty  jacket 

I  cried  for 

oat,  and  ho 

l)\it  wuliicd 
I  tthould  BOjn 
ihould  find  a 
)lenty  to  eat 
the  water, 

did  not  let 
[  have  found 
re  not  a  bit 
hutcauroux ; 
are  so  hand- 
•  eyes  to  the 
h  a  look  of 

he  almost 
rom  0,  child, 
id  known  so 

of  life,  that 
nd  softened 
jnt  who  was 
;t  his  knowl- 

nave  to  the 
3  though  ho 
y,  and  that 
his  life.     A 
ling  around 
live  believed 
n  a  dream, 
cd  imagina- 
)r  the  little 
side.     The 
ered  an  cx- 
rossed  her- 
urtain  and 
him.     She 
inspired  at 
1  the  gen- 
knew  uoth- 
onvict,  and 
mderstand 
le  child, 
n  Heaven," 
garded  the 
and  curi- 
her  from 
though  she 
aid  she  is  a 
ssed  herself 

"I  found 
ig  a  water- 
have  Gomo 


from  below,  I  cannot  say,  but  in  any 
case  she  won't  harm  you,  my  good  wo- 
man. You  must  not  bo  afraid  of  her, 
you  must  take  her  home  to  your  daugh- 
ter directly.  Poor  little  thing  I  she  is 
hungry  and  dirty ;  give  her  plenty  of 
food,  wash  her,  and  dross  her  in  clean 
clothes."  And  putting  some  silver  into 
the  old  woman's  hand,  ho  added,  im- 
pressively, "  Ucmeml)er  to  make  her 
comfortable,  ami  to-morrow  I  will  give 
you  as  much  more." 

The  ol<l  crouo  hesitated.  "  Go  at 
once  and  do  as  I  tell  you  ;  to-morrow  I 
will  find  somo  other  place  for  her,  but 
to-day  you  must  take  her  to  your 
daughter,"  he  said,  sternly. 

There  was  no  refusing  the  canon 
when  he  spoke  in  that  tone,  and  espe- 
cially when  he  was  so  generous  with  his 
silver.  So  tho  old  woman  hobbled  up, 
took  her  box  for  alms,  her  dirty  knit- 
ting, and  her  three-leggod  stool  under 
one  arm,  while  she  reached  out  hor 
other  hand  reluctantly  to  the  child, 
who  still  clung  to  the  priest's  gown. 

"  Go,"  he  said,  gently  disengaging 
himself,  —  "go  and  got  somo  food,  and 
to-morrow  I  will  find  you  a  bettor 
home." 

She  was  very  hungry,  and  so  she  was 
docile,  and  willing  to  bo  taken  any- 
where if  she  might  find  something  to 
eat ;  but  before  she  wont  she  clasped  the 
hand  of  the  priest  passionately,  kissed 
it,  and  left  a  tear  upon  it. 

The  toar  of  tho  child  acted  like  a 
charm  on  the  heart  of  Fabien,  for  ho 
said  to  himself,  as  ho  walked  slowly 
toward  the  bishop's  palace,  "  I  believe 
I  shall  learu  to  love  the  wretched  lit- 
tle thing." 


PART  SIXTH. 

HOW  A  PHILOSOPHER  HAT  DIB. 

The  Count  do  Clermont  was  dying. 
For  many  days  the  servants  had  passed 
in  and  out,  up  and  down  the  stairs,  and 
through  the  long  corridors  of  the  cha- 
teau, with  soft  footsteps,  grave  faces, 
and  compressed  lips.  All  the  outward 
semblances  of  sorrow  were  observed, 
whether  tho  heart  suffered  or  not.  Those 
who  serve  for  gain  seldom  love,  and  the 


dozens  of  obsequious  lackeys  who  bowed 
before  the  Count  do  Clermont  wore  no 
exceptions  to  the  great  mass  of  hire- 
lings. 

The  only  real  mourner,  the  only  one 
among  all  that  surrounded  him  who  felt 
any  sincere  love  for  the  profligate  old 
Count,  was  his  only  child,  a  boy  of 
twelve  years,  who  sat  day  after  day 
within  Boimd  of  his  father's  voice, 
watching  with  intense  anxiety  the  face 
of  the  physician,  who  passed  in  and  out, 
absorbed  in  his  effort  to  prolong  for  a 
little  time  a  life  that  had  been  of  no 
benefit  to  mankind ;  for  the  highest 
aim  of  tho  dying  man  had  been  pleas- 
ure, and  tho  only  generous  deeds  he  had 
done  had  boon  tho  heaping  of  thousands 
of  favors  upon  himself.  Ho  suffered  no 
pangs  of  remorae,  no  twinges  of  con- 
science for  tho  post,  no  fears  nor  doubts 
for  the  future.  His  philosophy  was 
simple,  and  easily  defined.  Life  was 
given  to  mau  that  he  might  enjoy  it. 
Ho  had  fulfilled  his  duty,  and  therefore 
ho  hod  nothing  with  which  to  reproach 
himself. 

While  speaking  to  his  physician,  who, 
because  he  expected  a  legacy,  showed 
tho  tonderest  sympathy,  ho  said,  "  I  am 
dying,  it  is  true,  but  I  have  lived  as 
long  as  one  ought ;  when  the  power  of 
oi\joymont  dies,  the  body  should  die 
also.  What  use  is  there  of  spreading  a 
feast  before  a  man  who  has  no  appetite 
for  it  1  When  the  ear  is  dull,  the  taste 
blunted,  the  eye  dim,  draw  a  curtain 
between  the  banquet  and  tho  automaton 
who  is  no  longer  a  weloomo  guest.  Life 
is  day,  and  death  is  night.  In  tho  day 
we  feast,  we  sing,  we  dance,  and  at  night 
wo  sleep.  In  my  youth  I  studied  Vol- 
taire, and  the  light  of  his  intelloot  illu- 
mined  all  the  chambers  of  my  mind.  I 
laid  out  my  future  according  to  his 
teaching,  and  I  have  carefully  followed 
my  plan.  '  I  have  let  no  opportunity  for 
enjoyment  pass  unimproved.  I  have 
pressed  all  tho  sweetness  fiom  life.  It 
has  nothing  more  to  give  me  ;  therefore 
I  am  contented  that  it  is  finished." 

Tho  boy  with  the  spiritual  fiice, 
dreamy  eyos,  and  thoughtful  smilo, 
sometimes  heard  fragments  of  those 
conversations,  and  wondered  if  it  wero 
true  that  life  is  day,  and  death  is  night, 
and  eternity  an  unbroken  sleep.  Strange 


I 


!<^^^H^W,^y■■■',4.'^v.!B.J,,■<>4^BVai^;tfl^^^^u 


S3 


A  CROWN  I'ROM  THE  SPEAR. 


Mi 


m 


and  vftgiio  drenms  floated  through  his 
mind,  wliich  the  reniurks  of  his  futlier 
to  the  piiysiciiin  stuWy  disturbed. 

The  day  had  worn  away  in  pain  and 
distress  to  the  dying  Count,  yet  he 
alTectcd  not  to  feel  that  ho  was  siiffer- 
i.ig.  A  smile  always  hovered  around 
his  pallid  lips,  his  hands  were  folded 
over  the  silken  cover  of  his  bod.  There 
was  no  moaning,  no  restlessness,  no 
coiuplaining ;  ho  was  determined  his 
death  sho\ild  bo  an  example  of  fortitude 
and  resignation.  During  his  life  he 
had  never  had  cause  to  murmur  at  the 
sharp  strokes  of  ungrateful  fortune  ;  a 
favorable  breeze  had  carried  him  pros- 
perously across  the  broad  ocean  ;  and  he 
was  now  entering  the  last  port  with 
what  ho  believed  to  be  flying  colors. 

"  I  will  show  you  how  a  philosopher 
should  die,"  ho  said  more  than  once  to 
his  physician,  as  he  raised  his  heavy 
eyes  to  a  portrait  of  Voltaire  that  h\mg 
before  his  bed.  He  had  yet  to  learn 
that  the  death  of  a  philosopher  and  the 
death  of  a  sinner  may  teach  one  and 
the  same  lesson. 

Darkness  gathered  in  the  great  cham- 
bers and  deserted  corridors,  and  in  the 
silent  anteroom  where  the  boy  dreamer 
slept  from  weariness  and  watchings,  with 
the  open  book  that  ho  no  longer  cared 
to  read  clasped  in  his  hands.  All  was 
silent  throughout  the  ch&teau,  although 
a  mighty  conqueror,  with  a  shadowy 
retinue,  was  even  then  approaching. 

The  door  of  the  anteroom  softly 
opened,  so  softly  that  it  did  not  disturb 
the  young  sleeper,  and  Fabien  entered 
the  sick-room  of  the  Count.  The  phy- 
sician, in  spite  of  his  anticipated  legacy, 
overcome  by  weariness,  nodded  at  his 
post,  and  did  not  awake  until  the  priest 
touched  his  ai-m  and  said  softly,  "  I  will 
watch  while  you  take  your  dinner.  Do 
not  hurry,  for  I  have  some  private  busi- 
ness with  M.  le  Comte." 

The  heavy  eyes  of  the  sick  man 
lighted  up  a  little,  and  the  painful 
smile  broadened  and  deepened,  as  the 
canon  took  his  cold  hand  in  what  seemed 
a  friendly  clasp,  but  which  in  reality 
was  as  treacherous  as  tho  kiss  of 
Judas. 

Perhaps  the  intellect,  illuminated  by 
the  near  approach  of  death,  understood 
more  clearly  than  ever  before ;  for  some- 


thing of  the  real  character  of  tho  man 
who  bent  over  him  evidently  impressed 
itself  on  the  mind  of  the  dying  Count. 
He  tried  to  flx  his  dim,  wandering  eyes 
on  the  face  of  Fabien.  There  was 
something  of  anxious  scrutiny  in  their 
regard,  and  an  inflectiuu  of  doubt  and 
uneasiness  in  his  voice,  when  he  said, 
"  Is  all  arranged  with  the  bishop,  and 
are  you  ready  to  cuter  upon  your  new 
diitiesl" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  canon,  "all  is 
arranged,  and  I  am  quite  prepared  to 
show  you  how  deeply  I  appreciate  the 
friendship  and  confidence  of  which  you 
have  given  me  so  great  a  proof." 

Again  the  Count's  eyes  wandered  to 
the  face  of  the  priest,  and  he  said 
drowsily  and  at  intervals,  "  I  cannot  be 
mistaken,  —  I  am  never  mistaken  ;  I 
can  read  the  human  heart  —  as  one 
reads  an  open  book.  I  have  studied 
you  carefully  and  closely,  —  when  you 
were  unconscious  of  it,  —  and  I  have 
found  nothing  to  condemn.  You  are  a 
scholar,  — you  are  a  philosopher,  — you  A  i 

know  how  to  live,  —  and  knowing  how 
to  live  teaches  one  how  to  die.  My 
son  will  be  instructed  by  a  great  mind, 
—  one  who  understands  the  true  phi- 
losophy of  life.  I  am  sure  I  have 
chosen  well,  —  you  have  a  strong  will 
and  a  decided  character,  — you  will  cor- 
rect the  feebleness  and  vacillation  of 
his.  I  have  confidence  in  you,  —  and  I 
know  you  will  never  abuse  it.  You 
will  be  true  to  the  trust  1  repose  on 
you."  With  the  last  words  his  voice 
gathered  strength,  and  his  eyes  were 
filled  with  entreaty  as  he  fixed  them 
on  the  inscrutable  face  of  his  com- 
panion. 

Fabien  clasped  closer  the  hand  that 
lay  in  his,  and  replied  earnestly :  "  I 
will  be  true  to  the  trust ;  your  wishes 
shall  be  obeyed  to  the  letter,  your  con- 
fidence in  me  will  make  my  duty  the 
most  sacred  of  ray  life.  I  will  instruct 
him  faithfully.  I  will  strive  to  make 
him  profound  in  knowledge,  pure  in 
heart,  and  strong  in  will  and  self-gov- 
ernment. I  will  hold  up  to  him  the 
lives  of  the  great  philosophers  as  a 
standard  to  which  ho  must  toil  to  at- 
tain. I  will  teach  him  to  live  worthily,  . 
both  by  example  and  precept.  I  speak  ' 
with  a  single  heart,  au  earnest  inteu- 


pf  tho  man 
imprcHsod 

f'mn  Count. 

doring  eyes 
ITliero  was 
|iy  in  their 
1  doubt  and 
pn  lio  said, 
bishop,  and 
your  new 

|n,  "all  is 
irc])arcd  to 
[rociato  tho 
which  you 

lOt." 

audorcd  to 
id   ho   said 

cannot  bo 
istakcn ;    I 

—  as  one 
vc  studied 
-  when  you 
md  I  have 
You  are  a 
•her,  —  you 
lowing  how 
die.  My 
^cat  mind, 

0  true  phi- 
iro  I  have 
strong  will 
ou  will  cor- 
sillation  of 
u,  —  and  I 

1  it.  You 
repose  on 
his  voice 

eyes  were 
fixed  them 

his  corn- 
hand  that 
lestly:  "I 
our  wishes 
your  con- 
duty  the 
ill  instruct 
>  to  make 
,  pure  in 
1  self-gov- 
)  him  the 
lers  as  a 
ioil  to  at- 
worthily, 

I  speak 
est  inteu- 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


13 


tion.     Host   in  poacol    your  son   and 
hoir  shall  bo  a  most  sacrod  trust." 

Although  the  voice  of  tho  priest  was 
gently  modidatcd  to  that  consoling 
ovonncss,  that  improssivo  calm,  which  in- 
dicates a  serene  and  truthful  nature, 
and  although  tho  clear  eyes  looked 
straight  and  steadily  into  tho  failing 
sight  of  tho  dying  man,  there  was  noth- 
ing in  their  gaze  that  reassured  him. 
On  the  contrary,  their  expression  seemed 
to  torment  him,  for  tho  thin  hands 
moved  restlessly,  clutching  at  what 
they  could  not  hold  in  their  relaxing 
grasp,  and  his  head  turned  imeasily  on 
the  pillow,  while  his  oyes  sought  every 
part  of  the  room  with  intense  anxiety. 
Ho  seemed  like  one  who,  believing 
himself  on  solid  ground,  finds  it  sud- 
denly giving  away  beneath  his  feet,  and 
strives  to  clutch  at  impossibilities  to 
save  himself.  His  reason  was  sinking 
below  his  grasp,  receding  beyond  his 
roach,  and  ho  was  vainly  trying  to  cling 
to  it  a  little  longer.  And  just  at  that 
moment,  when  ho  needed  something 
substantial  and  sure  to  lean  upon,  one 
after  another  the  foundations  beneath 
him  were  falling  away,  and  his  struc- 
ture built  on  sand  was  floating  a  wreck 
toward  the  unexplored  ocean  of  eternity. 
And  with  all  this  came  an  uncertainty, 
a  bewilderment ;  he  had  lost  his  way  in 
the  twilight,  profound  darkness  was  fast 
surrounding  him,  and  he  had  neither 
compass  or  guiding  star.  He  groped 
helplessly  in  his  obscurity,  but  it  was 
too  late  ;  he  could  not  find  his  path,  his 
philosophy  had  blinded  him.  In  his 
anguish  he  forgot  to  be  a  hero,  he  for- 
got to  be  composed  and  dignified,  and, 
like  any  other  suffering,  dying  mortal, 
ho  threw  his  arms  wildly  about,  strug- 
gled to  a  sitting  position,  and  cried  out 
for  the  doctor. 

Fabien  quietly  laid  him  back  on  his 
pillow,  took  the  restless  hands  firmly  in 
his  strong  grasp,  fixed  his  metallic  eyes 
on  the  drawn  and  pallid  face,  and  said 
in  a  hard  and  distinct  tone,  "  It  is  true 
you  are  dying,  you  have  but  a  few  mo- 
ments to  live,  and  there  is  something 
pressing  upon  your  conscience  like  a 
heavy  w^eight.  It  will  relieve  you  to 
confess  it ;  I  am  ready  to  hear  you, 
speak  while  you  have  the  time." 

The    hand,  half  palsied   by  death, 


groped  blindly  fbr  tho  littlo  silver  l»cll 
tliat  lay  on  tho  silken  cover  of  tho  bed, 
while  ho  gasped  in  a  weak  voice,  "  Voti 
have  deceived  mo  —  it  is  her  fiico  that 
bends  over  mo  —  my  child  —  Claiido  — 
call  tho  doctor.  It  is  not  too  lato  —  I 
will  change  my  will  —  I  will  not  loavo 
him  to  you  —  I  will  not  die  with  this 
doubt  pressing  on  mo.  Will  no  one 
come  —  Claude  —  Claude  I " 

Whenever  tho  hand  approached  tho 
hell,  Fabien  gently  drew  it  back,  while 
ho  tried  to  fix  tliu  wandering  mind  with 
his  firm,  steady  gaze.  Ho  wished  to  bo 
alone  with  tho  dying  Count,  for  he  Iw- 
lieved  that  in  the  last  agony,  in  the  su- 
preme moment,  when  the  soul  was 
wrenc'iing  itself  free  from  its  prison  of 
clay,  ho  might  wring  a  secret  from  tho 
sufferer,  —  a  secret  ho  had  striven  to 
possess,  and  around  which  centred  all  his 
plans  of  ambition  and  future  aggrandize- 
ment. Sooner  than  he  expected  tho  grim 
tyrant  had  seized  his  victim,  and  tho 
priest  know  tho  stniggle  woidd  be  brief. 
"Is  there  nothing  you  wish  to  con- 
fess 1 "  ho  urged  ivgain.  But  ho  was  too 
late.  A  mortal  spasm  convulsed  tho 
face  of  tho  dying.  He  sprang  from  his 
pillow,  threw  tip  his  arms,  and  almost 
shrieking  tho  name  "  Genevieve,"  fell 
back  in  the  arms  of  Fabien,  motion- 
loss. 

The  philosopher,  tho  scholar,  tho 
courted  leader  of  fashion,  the  gay,  prof- 
ligate Count  do  Clermont,  had  finished 
a  career  that  had  afforded  him  much 
worldly  pleasure  and  satisfaction,  and 
left  him  no  pangs  of  remorse  or  regret, 
for  so  he  had  boastingly  said  a  few  days 
before  his  death.  He  was  dead ;  tho 
secret  of  his  wrongs  to  others,  his  fol- 
lies, his  passions,  were  locked  forever 
within  his  frozen  heart,  only  to  be  re- 
vealed before  that  Judge  who  is  most 
just  as  well  as  merciful. 


PART  SEVENTH. 

THE   YOUNG   COUNT, 

Fabien  laid  the  Count  do  Clermont 
back  on  his  pillow,  and  stood  looking 
at  him  with  a  strange  expression  on  his 
face,  a  blending  of  triumph,  defeat,  and 


14 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


pity,  if  one  can  undorBtaiid  thoBO  di- 
vurao  paHflions  being  nppiircnt  at  tlio 
Biuno  moment.  Fur  a  lon^f  timo  lie 
remained  Hilcnt ;  then  ho  Hai<l,  in  a 
mournful  voiee,  "  (Jenoviovc,  unhappy 
noul,  thy  inline  v/nn  tho  laut  upon  hiu 
lipH.  (),  why  did  not  death  Hparu  him 
a  Uttlo  loufrer !  A  few  momentH  more 
of  mortal  anguish  would  have  wrung 
tho  Becret  from  him  ;  but  now  it  iu  too 
late,  it  is  too  lato,  I  have  failed  in  this. 
I  cniinted  upon  it  too  Hurcly ;  death  haB 
defeated  mo ;  now  the  Htudy  of  my  life 
will  bo  to  diacover  it  by  some  other 
nieaiiB." 

Then  ho  stooped  lower  and  looked 
long  and  earnestly  on  tho  pallid  face 
death  was  fast  changing  into  Bottled 
calm.  It  must  have  been  a  wonderfully 
beautiful  face  in  youth,  for  the  features 
were  perfect,  and  there  was  a  certain 
nobility  stamped  upon  the  broad  brow 
on  which  time  had  ploughed  but  light 
furrows.  It  seemed  as  though  tho 
priest's  gazo  was  riveted  by  a  spell,  bo 
long  did  ho  remain  motionless  as  a 
statue. 

All  was  silent ;  profound  darkness 
filled  tho  great  chamber,  only  broken 
by  the  feeble  flame  of  the  night-lamp, 
that  fell  over  tho  silken  curtains,  the 
face  of  tho  dead,  and  tho  black  robe  of 
the  priest.  The  wind  came  down  the 
chimney  with  a  piercing  wail ;  a  gust 
rattled  the  casement,  and  startled  Fa- 
bien  from  his  absorlied  contemplation  ; 
but  he  only  changed  his  position  to  fold 
bis  arms,  and  still  gaze  on  the  form 
before  him,  while  ho  said  in  a  low  voice 
that  was  tremulous  with  some  hidden 
emotion,  "  Poor  gontlo  soul,  how  she 
loved  and  suffered  !  she  was  pierced  with 
woes,  but  from  the  spear  she  gained 
the  crown.  AVill  alio  l)e  glad,  in  Para- 
dise, to  know  her  name  was  the  last  on 
his  lipsl  I  could  almost  forgive  him 
if  I  could  believe  he  had  over  felt  one 
pang  of  regret  while  living,  ever  dropped 
a  tear  at  her  unhappy  fate,  over  allowed 
a  thought  of  her  misery  to  disturb 
bis  riots  and  debauches.  No,  no,  he 
crushed  her  mercilessly  and  left  her 
to  die  without  care,  without  pity.  I 
would  have  gloated  over  his  death- 
agony  if  it  had  been  prolonged  as  long 
as  her  pain ;  but  no,  it  was  brief.  It 
was    over    too   soon,   the  dawning  of 


remorse  was  put  out  before  ho  oxpcri- 
encod  its  full  i>owor.  Ho  diod  aH  ho 
lived,  insensible.  If  there  is  a  hell, 
it  is  for  such  as  ho.  Thanks  Ito  to 
(>o<l,  ho  cannot  disturb  her  in  Para- 
dise." 

With  thoBO  words,  and  without  an- 
other look,  ho  turned  and  went  into 
the  antoroom  where  tho  young  Count 
still  slimibored.  Laying  his  hand  ou 
the  Iwy's  head  ho  8ai(l  very  gently, 
"Claudfo." 

Tho  sleeper  started  up  and  rubbed 
his  eyes  confusedly  as  he  turned  toward 
tho  room  of  his  father ;  his  first  thought 
was  for  him. 

Fabien  put  his  arm  around  him  and 
drew  him  away  from  tho  door. 

"Is  papa  sleeping  1"  ho  inqirirod  as 
ho  dropped  into  his  chair  again,  for  ho 
was  overcome  with  weariness. 

"  Yes,"  replied  tho  canon,  "  ho  sleeps, 
and  ho  will  never  awaken.  My  boy,  ho 
is  dead,  and  you  must  bear  your  loss 
with  courage." 

Claude  was  no  hero,  ho  was  only  a 
child,  and  ho  hoard  nothing  but  the 
words  "he  is  dead."  They  awakened 
him  thoroughly  and  sharply  enough. 
Springing  from  his  chair,  ho  fell  on  his 
knees,  and,  burying  his  face  in  tho 
priest's  mantle,  burst  into  loud  weep- 
ing. 

Fabien  made  no  effort  to  cousolo  him. 
"  He  must  weep,"  ho  thought ;  "  tears 
and  sorrow  are  the  inheritance  his  father 
has  left  him.  '  The  sins  of  his  father 
shall  be  visited  upon  him.'  The  spear 
he  sharpened  for  another  must  pierce 
tho  soul  of  the  innocent.  Poor  child  ! 
one  would  scarce  envy  you  your  patri- 
mony." 

After  a  few  moments  of  passionate 
weeping,  Claude  looked  with  something 
like  grieved  surprise  into  the  stony  face 
that  bent  over  him ;  but  seeing  neither 
pity  nor  tenderness  there,  he  turned,  be- 
wildered and  affrighted,  toward  tho  room 
where  his  father  lay. 

The  canon  took  him  by  the  arm  and 
said  coldly,  "You  have  no  one  there. 
Leave  the  dead  and  turn  to  the  living. 
Life  is  before  you,  and  you  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  death." 

"  0  my  father  ! "  sobbed  the  boy  as 
the  priest  led  him  from  the  room,  now 
fast  filling  with  the  excited  servants. 


, 


>  •■ 


li 


ho  oxpcri- 
liod  aH  ]io 
iH   n  hull, 

ikH    1)0    to 

in    Para- 

Ithout  an- 
wont  into 
mg  Count 
hand  ou 
■y   goutljr, 

id  nibbed 
c(I  toward 
t  tlioiight 

1  him  and 

iqirirod  as 
tin,  for  ho 

ho  sleeps, 
y  boy,  ho 
your  loss 

as  only  a 
but  the 
nwakened 
■  enough, 
ell  on  his 

0  in  tho 
)iid   woop- 

iisolo  him. 
t ;  "  tears 

1  his  father 
his  father 
rhe  spear 
ist  pierce 
)or  child  ! 
our  patri- 

lassionnte 
lomething 
itony  face 
g  neither 
imed,  be- 
tho  room 

arm  and 
ne  there. 
16  living, 
ive  noth- 

ic  boy  as 
om,  now 
rants. 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAH 

BOOK   SECOND. 
CHATEAU    DE    CLKKMONT. 


15 


PART   FIRST. 

VADIRN,    TIIK   AKCIinKACON. 

^  Ofa'tle  reader, — for  all  readers  nro 

gentle,  except  critics,  and  it  is  fuir  to 
prcHiiiuo  they  would  be,  if  their  profcs- 
siunal  reputation  did  not  recpiiro  thcni 
to  be  just,  —  is  it  allowed  to  us  devour- 
ers  of  time  and  paper  to  swallow  ten 
long  years  at  one  draught  1  —  ten  long 
yean  during  wliich  kingdums  are  lost 
and  won  ;  nations  Iwaten  down  in  the 
dust ;  republics  created,  tried,  and 
disproved  ;  govonimonts  overthrown  .: 
principalities  crushed ;  new  doctrines 
promulgated  and  explored ;  millions 
born,  millions  wedded,  and  millions 
buried ;  tragedies  without  number ; 
woes  repeated  in  every  form ;  joys 
newly  tasted  and  become  distasteful ; 
the  birth,  tho  growth,  tho  death  of 
love ;  friendship  betrayed,  trust  de- 
ceived, and  hope  disappointed.  But  as 
these  events  during  this  time  have  no  im- 
mediate connection  with  our  story,  hero 
they  can  have  no  interest  for  the  reader ; 
therefore  we  will  lot  them  slipquietly  into 
tho  river  of  time,  and  leave  them  to  float 
away  with  other  lost  years. 

Methinks  you,  sweet  maiden,  with 
soft  eyes  and  smiling  lips,  who  read  a 
novel  as  you  smell  a  rose,  crushing  it 
in  your  slender  fingers  and  throwing  it 
away  after  you  have  extracted  all  tho 
sweetness,  will  bless  the  author  who 
leaves  out  of  his  books  all  the  dry-as- 
dust  years.  And  you,  weary  matron 
and  cankered  man  of  care,  who  take  up 
a  romance  as  a  respite  from  daily  duty 
and  profound  thought,  would  find  little 
pleasure  in  the  uninteresting  details  of 
a  boy's  growing  and  a  priest's  schem- 
ing. Therefore  we  will  say  to  the  dead 
years,  rest  in  peace !  and  pray  to  be 
allowed  to  present  our  dramatis  personce 
under  the  most  favorable  auspices. 

The  private  study  in  the  Ch&teau  de 
Clermont,  whore  Fabien,  now  the  Arch- 


deacon, spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
tiniu,  wim  a  Htudy  noiiiinally  and  actu- 
ally, fur  a  niiiru  bizarre  combination  was 
never  grouped  together  within  four 
wuHh.  IluHHot  FlandorH  leather  hung 
from  tho  ceiling  to  tho  floor,  covered 
with  wickedly  ({uaint  desigiiH  enibosHed 
in  gold ;  procosHums  of  dancing  satyrs ; 
leering  faiiiis,  and  voluptuous  n^iiiphs  ; 
grinning  fiends  torturing  weeping  crea- 
tures ;  demons  twisting  serpent-like  tails 
around  monsters  half  Inimuii  and  half 
beast ;  withered  hags  with  diabolical 
faces,  pointing  lean  fingers  at  struggling 
souls  being  drawn  into  dark  chasms  by 
long-nailed  imps.  All  the  horrors  of 
Orgagna's  Last  Judgment,  mingled  with 
the  dissolute  grace  of  tho  I'ompeian 
frescos,  were  portrayed  on  these  lofty 
walls.  In  one  corner  stood  a  gigantio 
figure  clad  in  armor  which  may  havo 
been  worn  by  that  Robert  Conito  do 
Clermont  who  received  a  blow  in  his 
brains,  as  the  French  historian  graphi- 
cally has  it,  at  a  tournament  given  by 
his  brother,  Philip  III. ;  and  as  the  same 
historian  adds  that  the  Conite  Robert 
was  altogether  handsome  and  of  au  as- 
tonishing height,  the  remarkable  size  of 
the  armor  goes  to  prove  tho  tradition. 
However,  no  joyous  young  face  now 
smiled  from  its  iron  casement ;  only  u 
grinning  skull  represented  the  head  that 
once  had  supported  the  plumed  helmet. 
Between  pedestals  upholding,  one  tho 
figure  of  the  Madonna,  and  the  other 
a  crowned  Bacchus,  stood  a  curious  old 
cabinet,  covered  with  hieroglyphics,  and 
filled  with  stuffed  serpents,  dried  bats, 
and  crumbling  bones  which  must  have 
belonged  to  an  order  of  creation  long 
since  extinct.  Over  the  nmntcl-piece 
hung  a  Titian  ;  doubtless  the  great  mas- 
ter had  designed  it  for  a  Venus,  but,  to 
please  some  virtuous  ecclesiastic,  had 
changed  it  to  a  Magdalen.  There  was 
neither  penitence  nor  sorrow  in  the 
sensual  face  that  smiled  from  the  glow- 
ing canvas ;  neither  did  the  scanty  and 


aBjjiMjjjji.'ma«HMBaj'Ma»aasi^-KrtM^ww!J».'  i'-i»  Jujf, 


ill 


18 


A  CROWN  FROM   THE  SPEAR. 


tniiiHpurciit  (lrniM>ry  coiicchI  duo  lino  of 
tliu  V(ilii|)tii()iiM  loriii.  If  it  wuM  li  Mii^ 
diiluii,  it  wim  tliu  Niiiner,  luit  tliu  i>uiii 
tout.  AImivu  tliu  iViiino  wuru  croMttod 
Hdvcral  ri)riiii(lulili)-lii<ikiii^  wihreH  nnil 
cliiir^crH,  wliicli  Horvi'd  for  u  luick^ruiiiitl 
to  n  (K'licRtc  Tulcdu  Nuurd  with  an  ox- 
quiMitt'ly  fiipiivi'd  liilt.  A  jmir  of  iiii- 
tii|iio  liron/u  iirim  (inininoiiti'd  ciu'li  ond 
of  tlio  mniiti'l  picci',  uiid  in  flio  contro  ii 
LoiiiH  Xl\'.  clock  initrkcd  tliu  lioiir.  On 
a  lu'iivy  olidiiy  tiiMo,  wifli  eliilxinitt'ly 
carvod  feet,  Htood  a  liniHH  tii|«)(l,  with  a 
hrdii/o  cut  |i«'rcht'd  gravely  on  itrt  odno. 
A  Hinall  cnicililu  contiiinin^  a  ^TccniHli 
liipiid  Hat  on  tlio  cxtiuguiHlicd  onilicrH. 
A  );l<>ho,  hoiir-j^laHR,  Btiuaro,  and  coni- 
jiaHHOH,  with  nmny  ffconiotrical  inNtni 
niuntH,  lay  cardoHHly  around,  intonnixcd 
with  half-open  rolls  of  yellow  pnrcli- 
inont  coverofl  with  cabalistic  characterH, 
nncicnt  inittHalH,  and  old  buokH  with 
worm-oaton  covers.  Ueforc  a  Venetian 
inirri>r,  on  an  altar  of  vcnlr  niiti<ine  mar- 
ble, was  a  terra-cotta  statue  of  our  Sa- 
vioiir,  by  Lucca  dclla  Kobbia.  The 
dying  Christ  was  fearfully  distorted, 
and  the  disciples  who  surrounded  hitii 
looked  like  brigands.  An  ancient  fire- 
place, setting  forth  in  bas-relief  the  tri- 
umphs of  Jupiter,  begiiniing  with  the 
uot  very  chaste  story  of  Danac,  con- 
tained some  smouldering  logs,  upheld 
by  irons  in  the  form  of  centaurs  clasj)- 
ing  their  hands  above  their  shagg}' 
heads.  Before  this  firo,  and  near  the 
table,  in  a  high-backed  carved  chnir 
which  a  king  of  Franco  might  have 
liked,  sat  Fabien,  handsome,  elegant, 
composed,  and  scrupulously  neat  in  his 
dress.  His  srnnll  polished  shoes  with 
silver  buckles  rested  on  a  rich  Persian 
rug,  over  which  fell  his  crimson  corded 
robe.  The  narrow  linen  band  that  en- 
circled his  throat,  and  the  cuffs  that 
fell  over  his  hands,  were  of  immaculate 
purity.  The  rings  of  his  glossy  hair 
curled  over  the  edge  of  Ids  small  purple 
cap  and  around  his  white  forehead ;  and 
his  cleanly  shaven  face,  clear  ejes,  and 
firm  mouth  seemed  in  perfect  harmony 
with  every  detail  of  his  dress.  Looking 
at  him  as  ho  sat  there,  some  would  have 
said,  "  He  is  a  sticcessful  man  "  ;  more, 
"  He  is  a  good  man  "  ;  and  others,  "  He 
is  a  great  man."  The  air  of  refinement 
about  him  denoted  worldly  prosperity, 


and  thcrn  was  nothing  in  the  placid 
brow,  tinu  mouth,  and  earncHt  eyes  that 
iH'tokunutI  a  weird  nature,  an  uiidiiu 
ambition,  a  faithleHiineHH  und  liypoeriNy 
of  tho  deepest  dyo.  So  far  l.iM  ajipear- 
auco  duceivetl  onu  ;  but  there  was  noth- 
ing HpuriouH  in  the  stamp  tluit  profoiiiid 
thought,  constunt  stmly,  and  earet'iil 
eulturu  had  inijireHsed  upon  his  lace, 
ilu  miJi  a  proH|>erous  man.  lie  had  sue- 
ee<'ded  beyond  even  his  niuMt  iirdent 
ox]iectati(nis.  Hu  waa  no  longer  the 
jMior  scholar  of  the  college  of  St.  Vin- 
cent, tho  young  and<lreaniy  philosopher 
who  went  hungry  that  ho  might  have 
books,  and  slept  cold  that  ho  might  not 
sleep  much  ;  who  know  cvoything  that 
scionco  could  teach,  and  yet  was  very 
ignorant  of  tho  refinements  of  life. 
Now  hu  was  par  fxni/<iice  above  most 
of  those  who  had  despiBcd  him  in  his 
humble  days.  At  thirty-fivu  he  was  a 
high  dignitary  of  tho  Chiireh,  with  souls 
in  his  care,  austere,  grave,  Hcrioim,  and 
imposing.  Tho  children  of  tho  choir, 
the  acolytes,  tho  clerks,  tho  sacristans, 
tho  poor  worshippers,  all  reverenced 
him  when  ho  passed  slowly  across  tho 
choir  of  Notre  Dame,  miycstic,  jjonsivo, 
and  absorbed,  his  eyes  cost  down,  his 
arms  folded,  and  his  face  composed  to  a 
becoming  stolidity.  Yet  ho  had  not  ar- 
rived at  the  supremo  end,  the  great 
goal  to  which  ho  aspired.  Slowly  one  ol)- 
staclo  after  another  had  been  removed. 
As  he  approached,  tho  mountains  had 
levelled  before  him,  dark  and  uncertain 
paths  became  clear  and  straight.  C!ir- 
ciunstances  seemed  to  combine  to  make 
him  great.  Responsible  offices  were 
thrust  upon  him.  Important  trusts 
wore  confided  to  his  care.  The  Church 
looked  upon  him  as  her  most  zealous 
disciplo  and  brightest  light.  Philoso- 
phers and  scholars  did  not  disdain  to 
defer  their  opinion  to  his.  All  classes 
came  to  him  for  advico  and  counsel.  Ho 
was  gentle,  he  was  patient  and  gener- 
ous, giving  freely  of  what  was  not  his 
own,  thereby  teaching  his  young  pupil 
practically  tho  beauty  of  charity.  What 
more  could  this  man  desire  than  tho 
honor,  tho  esteem,  the  conlidenco  of  his 
fellow-men  1  Much  more;  for  with  all 
these  ho  was  favored,  yet  he  was  un- 
satisfied. A  dark  passion  filled  his  soul, 
which  he  concealed  beneath  a  mantle 


A    riUiWN'   FIIOM  TlIK  HVV.Ml 


IT 


tlio  placid 

t   OJl'H  (llllt 

itii    iiiidtio 
liv|i(i('riHy 
i«  n|npi!ur- 
was  iiotli- 
l  lirofiiiiiiil 
1(1    curcl'iil 
liin    i'nvv, 
«.'  Imd  Kiic- 
>it    iinli'iit 
Diip'r   tlio 
f  St.  Vin- 
iiliiH(i|i)icr 
li^l't  Imvo 
iiiiKlit  not 
tiling  timt 
WHM  very 
i    of    life, 
lovu  most 
liin  in  Ids 
lie  wfts  n 
witli  NouU 
rioim,  luid 
till)  clioir, 
siicrintans, 
evcrcnccd 
itTOHH  the 
^  pcnsivo, 
down,  his 
)<)t<cd  tu  a 
ad  not  ftr- 
tlio  great 
]y  one  ol>- 
rcinoved. 
tninu  iind 
nncertaia 
,'ht.     c;ir- 
3  to  ninko 
iocs   wcro 
nt   tniHts 
e  Church 
t  zealous 
PhiloBO- 
isdain   to 
11  classes 
inscl.  He 
tid  genor- 
)  not  his 
ng  pupil 
y.    What 
than  the 
ce  of  his 
with  all 
was  un- 
his  soul, 
I  mantle 


nf  hypoeriKV  ;  but  day  and  ni^liti  u!i>ne 
i)r  with  tilt)  WDrld,  KiliMifiy   hi'  iinxidi'd, 
pliiniu'd,   and  HLhciu'd  lor   ttiu   uccuai 
|iiiHlinient  of  ono  iil>ject. 


PAIIT    AF/'OSt). 

A  COIINT,   A   1,1 1, V,  ANf  4  nOSB. 

ri..\iM»K  UK  Ci.iuMdNT  WHS  n  *trnn<»u 
youth,  (luict,  gentle,  thiMiglitful.  In 
liiie  luimt  rich  yiiiiiig  nolilen  nt'  IiIh  age, 
he  Kivi-d  to  lie  almie  witii  his  IxKiks  and 
nutiire.  A  drtaniv  HadncHs  sorimcd  IiIh 
dark  eyes,  and  Htaniped  his  I'lu'e  \\ith  an 
indeHcrilialili-  elianii.  When  Jio  spoke, 
his  Vdieo  wiiH  Hoft  and  low  ;  when  lie 
Niiiiled,  IiIh  ) mile  was  like  a  ehild'H  ;  and 
Ills  nianiierH  were  rc^fined  and  caressing, 
yet  a  little  shy  and  renerved.  lie  Kel- 
dnni  openetl  hi«  heart  to  Fahien,  Keeni- 
ing  to  live  a  life  apart  from  his  tutor, 
who,  it  is  true,  had  never  encouraged 
any  eonlidences.  Ho  was  a  hard  student, 
anil  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time 
witli  his  hooks,  they  were  his  favorite 
eompanions.  Ho  found  in  them  society 
that  never  disappointed  him  ;  they  did 
not  flatter  him  to  IiIh  face  and  censure 
liim  when  ho  liad  turned  away,  they 
jHiured  out  their  rich  treasures  freely,  and 
iio  might  gather  uj)  all  ho  wished  with- 
out heing  avaricious,  or  he  might  scatter 
them  without  being  spendthrift;  they 
were  friends  that  were  plastic  in  his 
hands  to  do  with  us  he  wished  ;  he 
loved  them,  and  ho  rarely  over  neglected 
them. 

Fabien,  true  to  his  promise  to  tlic  dy- 
ing Count,  had  made  a  scholar  of  the  boy. 
He  had  given  him  the  example  of  an 
upright,  lionorablc  life.  He  had  taught 
him  the  sublime  doctrines  of  the  ancient 
philosophers ;  ho  had  not  interfered 
with  his  religious  impressions ;  he  had 
left  him  free  to  choose  for  his  master 
Christ  or  Voltidro,  whichever  ho  pre- 
ferred, without  advice  or  counsel ;  he 
had  not  endeavored  to  bias  his  mind 
toward  any  one  doctrine  or  profession. 
He  had  obeyed  the  old  Count's  com- 
mands literally  ;  he  had  taught  the  boy 
science  and  philosophy,  but  he  had 
taken  no  pains  to  fashion  his  soul  to 
noble  and  holy  desires.     There  was  fer- 


tile noil  ready  to  rcroivo  Iho  so  d,  but 
h(  had  sown  nothing.  The  lM)y'H  vague 
laiicies  and  cniifusetl  thouglitH  had 
fairly  Ntriiggled  to  reline  theniselveit 
into  Kiiniething  like  pure  gulil,  but 
there  was  too  much  i>f  Inreign  matter 
picked  up  friiin  dcsidtnry  reading  that 
Wdtdd  nut  unile  with  a  iiatuiallv  good 
and  iiolile  nature.  Sometimes  he  longed 
Ul  ^o  to  his  tutor,  open  his  heart  to 
him,  mil]  fell  him  all  his  doubts  and 
desires,  lint  tliiO'  was  sometliing  forbid 
ding  in  the  nianiier  <  I'  the  priest  that 
kiifit  the  lM)y  at  a  distaiice.  So  ho 
studied,  \vm\,  and  dreamed  away  his 
days  in  the  pleasant  Kecliision  <if  (^ler- 
niont,  wondering  what  the  world  was 
like ;  longing  for,  and  yet  shrinking 
from,  the  time  when  ho  might  Im  ol- 
lowed  to  enter  the  held  and  engage  in 
the  conflict  for  himself. 

Two  young  girls  with  arms  intwinod 
and  heads  jpressed  together  in  eontiden- 
tial  discoin-Ho  walked  slowly  <lown  n 
garden  path,  followeil  by  an  elderly 
woman,  who  was  knitting  and  humming, 
as  she  went,  an  old  tune  of  Provence. 
The  Lily  and  the  Hose,  as  they  were 
name<l  by  the  peojtle  for  miles  around, 
did  not  feel  the  sharp-eyed  old  woman 
to  be  any  restraint,  for  they  repeated 
their  most  important  secrets,  imd 
laughed  over  their  girlish  pranks,  as 
though  there  was  nothing  but  the  birds 
and  flowers  to  listen  to  them. 

The  Lily  was  Celeste  Monthelon,  a 
tall,  graceful,  white  lily,  with  soft,  gen- 
tle ways,  downcast  eyes,  and  a  sweet 
face,  on  which  wcro  stamped  peace  and 
purity. 

The  II0.SO  was  Aimeo,  the  convict's 
child.  She  was  not  a  white  rose,  nor  a 
red  rose  of  I'rovins,  but  a  rose  de  the, 
velvety,  creamy,  with  passionate  color 
at  the  heart,  wild  fragrance,  and  fatal 
grace.  At  six,  she  was  an  ugly,  weird 
little  creature  ;  at  sixteen,  she  was  a 
rose.  The  body  had  grown  up  to  the 
disproportioned  head,  which  would  now 
seem  small,  only  for  its  crown  of  blue- 
black  hair,  breaking  into  a  thousand 
ripples  of  light.  There  was  something 
startling  in  the  expression  of  her  eyes 
when  they  looked  at  one,  which  was 
seldom,  for  they  were  like  nothing  but 
the  eyes  of  a  tiger ;  in  color  reddish- 


■■■:  '^ 


-  I'v./jiiai'.iMtu.ai 


Jfc 


18 


A  CROWN   FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


«i 


brown,  with  Ifirgc  pupils  tliat  one  would 
have  Bwoni  were  a  little  oMong,  j'ot, 
veiled  as  tliey  were  by  the  thickest  aiul 
daikest  ol'  lashes,  tliey  appeared  soft 
and  jicnsive  ;  only  when  tliey  flashed  a 
glance  straight  at  one,  then  their  fire 
and  ])assion  made  (lie  heart  shiver. 
Her  eyebrows  turned  down  a  little  at 
the  ni'sc,  an  1  up  a  little  at  tlie  temples, 
which  gave  to  the  face  a  maliciously 
mischievous  expression,  that  the  round- 
ness and  beauty  of  the  cheek,  perfect 
nose,  mouth,  and  chin  fully  redeemed. 
Her  nat)ire  was  a  combination  of  good 
and  evil ;  generoua,  passionate,  loving 
to  desperation  those  she  loved,  and 
hating  bitterly,  vindictively,  revenge- 
fully those  she  hated.  And  she  was 
ambitious ;  she  wished  to  be  a  lady,  a 
great  lady ;  she  wished  to  see  unnum- 
bered adorers  at  licr  feet.  She  declared 
many  times,  in  confidence  to  Celeste, 
that  her  beauty  should  win  her  a  title. 
She  hated  the  quiet  and  retirement  of 
Clermont,  and  desired  to  see  the  great 
world  of  Paris.  She  would  prefer  a 
life  of  excitement  and  adventure,  in 
which  she  nuist  play  the  first  ])art.  At 
other  times,  she  hated  everything,  and 
declared  she  would  enter  a  convent, 
become  a  hermit,  a  pilgrim,  or  a  sister 
ofcb'rity.  Then  she  wished  to  bo  a 
man,  that  she  might  lead  the  life  of  a 
soldier,  and  fight  and  die  for  her  coun- 
try. She  talked  well  and  eloquently, 
for  a  girl,  of  heroism  and  self-immola- 
tion ;  yet  declared  in  the  same  breath 
that  she  was  capable  of  neither.  She 
was  torn  to  pieces  by  contending  emo- 
tions ;  subject  to  fits  of  melancholy 
depression,  sudden  abandonment  to 
tears,  fiu-ious  and  ?hnost  insane  bursts 
of  p:u5sion,  reckless  and  noisj'  mirth, 
thoughtfulncss  and  reserve,  followed  by 
an  expansiveness,  winning  and  gra- 
cious. She  was  moody,  imcertain  as 
the  'vind,  unstable  as  water;  yet  she 
exercised  a  wonderful  fascination,  an 
irresistible  influence,  over  those  around 
her.  Fabien  was  her  slave.  In  no 
other  hands  but  hers  was  ho  plastic  ; 
and  she  moulded  him  to  her  will  with 
a  despotism  as  remarkable  as  it  was 
powerful. 

After  the  death  of  the  Count  de  Cler- 
mont, in  accordance  with  his  wishes  the 
canoji  ijxed  his  residence  permanently 


at  the  chateau,  bringing  Aim^o  with 
him  ;  he  placed  her  muler  the  charge  of 
the  housekeej)er,  representing  her  to  I  e 
the  orphan  of  a  dear  friend  to  whom  ho 
was  deej)ly  indebted  for  many  favors  in 
former  «lays.  This  explanation  all:iy('<l 
whatever  suspicion  the  gossips  ef  the 
iiousehold  riiny  have  liiid,  and  cstal  - 
lished  the  little  girl  on  a  Kort  of  Icel 
with  the  yo\ing  (!ount.  She  had  grown 
up  with  him  as  a  sister,  they  iird  stud- 
ied and  played  together,  and  she  liud 
been  more  than  once  a  mediator  be- 
tween the  boy  and  his  stern  tutor. 
The  tear  she  left  on  the  hand  of  Fabien 
the  day  he  led  her  out  from  the  shadow 
of  Notre  Dame  had  indeed  worked  its 
charm,  for  sho  was  the  only  thing  in 
the  wide  world  he  loved,  and  he  wor- 
shipped this  little  waif  thrown  upon  his 
mercy  with  all  the  strength  and  inten- 
sity of  his  strange  nature. 

The  Lily,  CeJleste  Monthelon,  was  also 
Fabien's  ward.  Her  father  was  a  rich 
button-manufacturer,  who,  during  the 
life  of  the  former  Count  de  Clermont,  had 
purchased  the  adjoining  estate.  But  the 
old  aristocrat  had  never  condescended 
to  notice  his  plebeian  neighbor,  whoso 
beautifid  grounds  were  only  separated 
from  his  by  a  row  of  poplars  and  a  low 
rustic  fence.  However,  the  old  Count 
did  not  live  long  after ;  and  when  Fabien 
became  master  of  Clermont,  wiiich  he 
w.as  virtually,  he  made  the  kindest  and 
most  winning  advances  to  the  honest 
man,  who  gladly  met  him  half-way.  In 
this  manner  an  intimate  friendshij)  was 
soon  established  between  the  two  fami- 
lies. Madame  Monthelon  was  an  inva- 
lid, suffering  from  an  incurable  disease, 
when  Fabien  first  made  his  flattering 
and  disinterested  overtures  to  the  good 
manufacturer,  and  during  all  the  years 
that  followed  she  never  left  her  room, 
or  was  seen  in  the  society  of  her  hus- 
band and  little  girl,  who  with  the  ser- 
vants comprised  the  whole  family  of  M. 
Monthelon.  When  Celeste  was  a  little 
more  than  twelve  years  of  age,  her  fa- 
ther too  became  a  confirmed  invalid. 
From  one  of  the  windows  of  the  Cha- 
teau de  Clermont  Fabien  could  over- 
look the  grounds  of  Monthelon  ;  there 
hf  often  watched  the  feeble  man  tot- 
tering about,  loaning  on  the  shoulder  of 
hit  little  daughter,  who  was  his  insepar- 


Thc 


;  Aim6o  with 
the  chiii'gc  of 
ting  lier  to  1  o 
d  to  whom  ho 
luny  i'iivors  in 
nation  iilhiycd 
;ossi|iH  (;f  the 
1,  and  cstal  - 
Eort  of  lc"t'l 
ihc  had  gi'owii 
iuy  hiul  stiid- 
and  she  hud 
mediator  he- 
stern  tutor. 
Lind  of  Fixhien 
m  the  sliadow 
d  woi'iicd  its 
n\y  thing  in 
and  he  wor- 
own  upon  his 
:h  and  intcu- 

Blon,  was  also 
;r  was  a  rich 
,  during  tho 
[Clermont,  had 
ate.  But  the 
condescended 
[.dibor,  whoso 
ily  separated 
irs  and  a  low 
0  old  Count 
wlicn  Fabien 
nt,  which  he 
i  kindest  and 
)  the  lionest 
lalf-way.  In 
•iendship  was 
he  two  fami- 
was  an  itiva- 
rable  disease, 
lis  flattering 
to  the  good 
all  the  years 
ft  her  room, 
'  of  her  hus- 
tvith  the  ser- 
family  of  M. 
!  was  a  little 
f  age,  her  fa- 
med invalid, 
of  the  Cha- 
could  over- 
helon  ;  there 
ble  man  tot- 
e  shoulder  of 
8  his  insepar- 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


19 


able  companion,  and  speculated  on  the 
chances  of  being  her  guardian  when  her 
niiturul  protector  shoidd  be  removed  by 
death.  With  this  intention  ho  was  not 
long  in  winning  the  entire  confidence  of 
tho  invalid,  who  was  deceived  into  be- 
lieving all  tho  priest's  attention  and 
kindness  to  V)C  but  disinterested  friend- 
ship. 

Sliortly  before  his  death,  during  a 
eonver-iation  with  his  daughter  respect- 
ing her  future,  M.  Monthelon  said, 
"  Tho  canon  is  a  good  man,  and  I  have 
a  sincere  aflection  for  him.  I  know  of 
no  one  to  whom  I  can  intrust  thee  and 
thy  fortune  with  ecpial  satisfaction  and 
confidence."  And  Celeste,  who  always 
complied  with  her  father's  wishes,  found 
nothing  to  object  to  in  such  an  arrange- 
ment ;  for  she  too  liked  and  trusted  the 
grave  and  handsome  priest,  who  always 
spoke  to  her  as  one  would  to  a  child, 
with  gentle  and  caressing  speech. 

After  her  father's  death  Celeste  spent 
much  of  her  time  at  the  Chiiteau  de 
Clermont  with  Aim^e  and  tho  young 
Count.  The  girls  read,  walked,  and  gos- 
siped together,  followed  and  watched 
by  tho  sharp-eyed  Fanchettc,  who  was 
foster-mother,  goveriiess,  and  humble 
companion  to  Celeste.  This  kind-hearted 
woman  of  Provence  had  taken  her  a 
baby  from  her  feeble  mother's  arms, 
and  bestowed  upon  her  all  the  affection 
and  care  of  the  fondest  heart.  It  was 
the  only  maternal  love  she  had  ever 
known,  for  poor  Madame  Monthelon, 
feeble  in  mind  as  well  as  in  body, 
scarcely  ever  saw  her  child.  Fanchette 
loved  the  girl  most  tenderly;  she  hu- 
mored her,  petted  her,  and  sang  to  her 
the  sweet  airs  of  Provence,  while  she 
guarded  her  carefully.  Yet  sharp-eyed 
and  quick-witted  as  she  was,  she  could 
not  discover  under  the  robe  of  the 
priest  the  wolf  who  was  to  devour  her 
lamb,  for  she  believed  in  Fabien  as  one 
believes  in  the  Cod  he  worships. 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose,  as  they  were 
called  by  all  the  servants  and  all  the 
people,  grew  and  leaned  toward  each 
other  lovingly  for  a  time,  imtil  the  hot 
breath  of  the  sun  wooed  from  the  Rose 
the  pure  embraces  of  the  Lily,  then 
Aim6o  hated  C(51esto  with  all  the 
strength  of  her  nature.  This  passion 
was  born  suddenly.     It  started  into  life 


one  day  when  the  young  Count,  meeting 
them  in  their  walk,  lingered  by  the  side 
of  ('eleste  and  looked  into  her  soft  eyes 
with  unmistakable  love. 


PART   THIRD. 

A    TACK    AT    A    WINDOW. 

There  were  merriment  and  revelry  in 
the  great  salon  at  the  (Jhateau  do  Cler- 
mont. Sounds  of  fresh,  girlish  voices, 
laughing  with  unattected  enjoyment, 
mingled  with  the  soft  tones  of  a  piano, 
upon  which  some  one  was  playing  a 
dreamy  waltz.  Tiie  wax  candles  were 
lit  in  tho  brackets  on  tho  wall  and 
in  tho  Venetian  glass  chandeliers  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling.  Flowers  were 
everywhere  twisted  in  garlands  around 
the  pictures,  and  twined  about  tho  neck 
and  dainty  limbs  of  tho  Venus  that 
gleamed  from  a  background  of  crimson  ' 
tapestry.  Every  urn  and  every  niche 
was  filled  with  the  fragrant  beauties,  un- 
til the  room  seemed  a  bower  of  roses. 

It  was  Claude's  birthday,  and  the 
girls  were  celebrating  it  in  a  merry,  in- 
nocent fashion.  They  had  decorated 
the  salon  secretly,  and  had  surprised 
Claude  by  covering  his  eyes  and  lead- 
ing him  within  the  door.  When  the 
brilliantly  lighted,  flower-bedecked  room 
fell  upon  his  sight,  he  expressed  his  as- 
tonishment and  pleasure  with  more 
than  usiial  demonstrativeness,  by  seiz- 
ing the  hand  of  Celeste  and  kissing  it 
heartily,  at  which  the  girl  blushed,  Fan- 
chette frowned,  and  Aim^e  burst  into  a 
ringing  laugh. 

"Now,"  said  Aim^e  with  vivacity, 
after  they  had  sufficiently  admired  the 
decorations  and  each  other's  dresses,  — 
"now  we  will  have  a  ball.  Claude 
shall  play  a  bewitching  waltz  while  we 
dance.  Not  you,  Madame  Fanchette," 
pushing  the  woman  brusquely  into  a 
chair.  "  Sit  there,  with  your  everlast- 
ing knitting  and  watch  our  graceful  evo- 
lutions. Come,  my  Lily,  to  your  Rose, 
but  beware  of  her  thorns.  They  are 
long  and  sharp,  and  they  may  pierco 
your  tender  w-hiteness." 

Throwing  her  arm  around  the  slender 
waist  of  Celeste  with  a  savage  clasp,  as 


■  v«i»iMaK!i»eMMWiW'j»MWMiw»^^ 


20 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


tlimif^h  she  would  devour  her,  she 
drew  her  into  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  began  wliirlins,'  around  witli  tlio 
most  graceful  abandon,  t'elcste,  inider- 
standing  the  moods  of  her  friend,  re- 
signed hei-self  to  her  rougl»  embrace, 
and  entered' into  the  spirit  of  the  dance 
with  the  utmost  enjoyment.  Claude 
played  as  though  lie  were  inspired 
with  the  soul  of  mirth,  and  Fanchcttc 
dropped  her  knitting,  her  grave  features 
relaxing  into  something  like  a  smile,  as 
she  watched  the  charming  girls,  their 
lovely  faces  wreathed  with  smiles,  their 
hair  floating  in  careless  confusion,  their 
gauzy  white  dresses  enveloping  them  in 
a  cloud,  until  one  could  scarcely  tell 
which  was  the  lily  and  which  was  the 
rose. 

At  last  Celeste,  completely  overcome 
by  her  rapid  whirl,  broke  away  from  her 
companion  and  sank  into  a  chair.  Aim6e 
seemed  possessed  with  tlio  spirit  of 
Terpsichore.  Her  little  feet  scarcely 
touched  the  Persian  carpet  as  she 
turned  and  floated  lightl}-,  making  the 
largest  circuit  of  the  room.  Her  beau- 
tiful arms  clasped  over  her  head,  her 
graceful  figure  displaying  every  lino  of 
beauty,  her  eyes  aflame,  and  her  lips 
parted  in  a  dazzling  smile,  she  seemed 
a  suponiatural  being,  an  angel,  a  faiiy, 
a  nymph,  a  Bacchante,  anything  but  a 
human  being.  Suddenly  stopping  in 
her  mad  evolutions  and  uttering  a  little 
scream,  she  sprang  away  from  a  large 
window  at  the  lower  end  of  the  salo7i, 
that  opened  on  a  terrace,  nnd,  seizing 
Claude  by  the  arm,  she  cried,  "  Look, 
do  you  see  that  face  at  the  window, 
that  horrid,  ghastly  face  ? " 

Claiide  started  up.  Fanchette  dropped 
her  knitting,  and  Celeste  retreated  into 
a  farther  corner. 

"  I  see  nothing,"  said  Claude,  direct- 
ing his  glance  toward  the  window,  —  "I 
see  nothing.  Your  dance  has  turned 
your  brain.  It  was  an  optical  illusion." 
"  You  see  nothing.  Stupid !  How 
should  you  see  anything  when  there  is 
nothing  to  see  now  1  It  was  a  face,  I 
tell  you,  and  the  face  of  a  thief.  Do 
you  suppose  he  will  stand  there  and  lot 
us  all  look  at  him  '^ " 

"  Perhaps  it  was  Father  Fabien,"  sug- 
gested Celeste,  timidly. 

"  Father  Fabien,— nonsense  !     I  tell 


!  you  it  was  a  horrid  face,  a  ghastly  face, 
with  great  hungry  ej'es  that  seemed  de- 
j  vouring  me,"  she  said  vehemently. 
I      Claude  only  laughed,  and  it  seemed 
to  irritate  her  beyond  description. 

"You  coward!"  she  cried,  "you 
don't  believe  it  because  you  are  fright- 
ened. I  tell  you  it  was  a  thief  I  am 
not  afraid.  I  will  sec."  And  straigll- 
ening  herself  like  a  J'oung  grenadier, 
while  she  shook  her  small  fist  signifi- 
cantly, she  marched  direct  to  the  win- 
dow. Fanchette  followed  her,  and 
Claude  improved  the  opportunity  to  kiss 
again  the  hand  of  Celeste. 

AimCc  flung  open  the  window  bravely, 
and  stopped  out  on  the  terrace.  It 
was  dark,  and  Fanchette  drew  back 
afraid. 

"  Here  he  is,"  she  said,  savagely  press- 
ing her  undcrlip  with  her  white  teeth, 
as  she  went  toward  a  miseral)le-looking 
creature  huddled  agamst  the  wall  with 
his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  "  Mal- 
henreux !  What  are  you  doing  here? 
Why  have  you  frightened  us,  and  inter- 
rupted our  pleasure  1 " 

The  voice  that  addressed  the  poor 
creature  was  so  stem  and  harsh,  so  un- 
like the  voice  of  a  girl,  that  he  started, 
but  did  not  raise  his  head,  nor  reply ; 
only,  bending  lower,  he  clasped  timidly 
the  hem  of  her  white  dress,  and  pressed 
it  to  his  lips. 

She  drow  her  dress  away  from  hi? 
grasp  with  a  sharp  stroke  of  her  hand, 
saying,  "Are  you  a  thief,  or  are  you 
mad  ■? "  Then  turning  toward  the  win- 
dow, she  cried  in  a  loud,  clear  voice, 
'•  Claude,  Claude  !  " 

When  Claude  reached  her  side  the 
man  was  gone  ;  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  glimpse  lie  had  of  a  dark  figure 
disappearing  in  the  shrubbery  below,  he 
would  have  declared  again  that  the 
dance  had  turned  her  brain,  and  she 
was  laboring  under  a  delusion.  As  it 
was,  he  looked  a  little  grave  when  he  en- 
tered the  room. 

C^ileste  was  trembling  with  fear  be- 
hind Fanchette,  and  to  her  eager,  "  Who 
was  it  1 "  he  replied  ;  "  I  don't  know,  but 
I  think  it  was  most  likely  one  of  the 
peasants  who,  in  crossing  the  park,  was 
attracted  by  the  light  and  music,  and 
was  curious  to  know  what  was  going  on 
within." 


a  ghastly  face, 
liat  seemed  de- 
lemcntly. 
Mid  it  seemed 
uscription. 

cried,  "you 
on  are  fright- 
i  tliief.  I  am 
And  straijrlt- 
nig  grenadier, 
dl  fist  signifi- 
;t  to  the  win- 
ed her,  and 
rtimity  to  kiss 

ndow  bravely, 
!  terrace.  Jt 
0   drew   back 

lavagcly  prcss- 
•  white  teeth, 
erable-looking 
the  wall  witii 
(inds.  "  Mal- 
doing  here  ] 
us,  and  inter- 

sed  the  poor 
harsh,  so  xin- 
at  he  started, 
d,  nor  reply ; 
asped  timidly 
3,  and  pressed 

vay  from  hi? 
of  her  hand, 
',  or  arc  you 
R-ard  the  win- 
,  clear  voice, 

her  side  the 
lad  not  been 
a  dark  figure 
lery  below,  he 
lin  that  the 
•ain,  and  she 
usion.  As  it 
3  when  he  en- 

tvith  fear  be- 
eager,  "Who 
n't  know,  but 
y  one  of  the 
;he  park,  was 
i  music,  and 
was  going  on 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


91 


Aimec  entered  with  Claude,  but  she 
said  not  a  word.  Dropping  into  a  chair, 
she  remained  with  her  arms  folded  and 
her  eyes  fixed  on  a  certain  pattern  in 
the  carpet,  lost  in  profound  thought. 
][cr  face  was  stern  and  pale ;  all  tlie 
light  and  laughter  iiad  passed  away 
from  it,  and  now  siio  looked  more  like  a 
young  Nemesis  than  a  fairy  or  a  nymph. 


PART  FOURTH. 

I    CAN    MAKE   HIM    USEFUL. 

When  Aim6c  had  cried  "Claude, 
Claude,"  the  vagrant  had  started  to  his 
feet  and  dashed  down  the  terrace,  never 
pausing  to  look  behind  him  until  he 
reached  the  thickest  shrubbery  in  a 
part  of  the  park  remote  from  the  cha- 
teau. There  he  threw  himself  prostrate 
on  the  ground,  and,  extending  his  arms, 
clutched  with  convulsive  grasp  the 
dried  leaves  and  moss,  digging  his  long 
fingers  deep  into  the  earth,  and  moan- 
ing and  writhing  with  suppressed  agony. 
Then  ho  suddenly  started  to  his  feet, 
and,  clinching  his  hand,  shook  it 
defiantly  at  the  star-lit  heavens,  crying 
in  sharp  tones  of  gi-icf  and  incredulity, 
"  Thou  art  Crod,  and  thou  sittest  in  the 
heavens  and  motest  out  justice  to  the 
children  of  men]  With  what  irony 
thou  callest  thyself  just !  Is  it  just  to 
implant  within  our  hearts  natural  affec- 
tion, to  bo  returned  with  scorn  and  hate  1 
Is  it  just  to  make  us  worms,  and  then 
crush  us  in  the  dust  %  In  thy  supreme 
power,  hast  thou  no  pity  for  the  weak- 
ness of  the  creature  thou  hast  created 
and  called  good  1  Where  is  thy  mercy 
when  thou  turnest  a  deaf  ear  to  those 
who  cry  unto  thee  1  Thou  art  unjust ! 
and  the  strongest  passion  thou  hast 
implanted  in  the  heart  of  humanity  is 
injustice.  I  prayed  to  thee,  I  trusted 
thee  ;  and  I  believed  if  I  could  but  see 
her  face  again,  thou  wouldst  reveal  to 
her  the  infinite  love  of  my  heart.  I 
have  scon  her.  Again  she  has  treated 
me  with  scorn,  and  driven  me  from  her. 
There  is  no  truth  in  the  instincts  of 
nature.  Blood  is  not  thicker  than  wa- 
ter. I  have  nothing  more  to  live  for, 
to  hope  for,  to  struggle  for.     Outcast, 


branded,  a  fugitive,  hunted  like  a  wild 
beast,  every  man's  hand  is  against  me. 
Until  now  I  have  wronged  none,  neither 
iiavo  I  desired  to ;  but  from  this  nio- 
niont  the  world  is  my  adversary.  I 
will  regard  all  humanity  as  one  regards 
a  personal  enemy.  Indiscriminately  I 
will  avenge  on  all  my  own  sufferings. 
Henceforth  there  shall  be  neither  jiity, 
truth,  nor  love  in  my  heart.  I  hato 
mankind,  and  I  will  prove  it." 

"  My  friend,  my  brother,"  interrupted 
a  stern,  sad  voice,  "  these  are  bitter 
words  to  Ml  from  the  lips  of  a  feeble 
mortal ;  these  are  fearful  words  of 
defiance.  What  great  wrong  hath  so 
embittered  thee  against  thy  fellow- 
creatures  ? " 

The  unfortunate  turned,  and  saw  be- 
fore him,  in  the  dim  light,  the  tall, 
black-robod  form  of  a  priest.  It  was 
Fabien,  who  was  taking  one  of  his  noc- 
turnal rambles.  Something  had  oc- 
curred to  disturb  him  during  the  day, 
and  rapid  walking  in  this  lonely  spot 
was  the  escape-valve  that  freed  his  pent- 
up  passions.  He  had  been  attracted  a 
little  fi'om  his  path  by  the  tragic  and 
somewhat  startling  tones  of  the  wretch 
who  defied  God.  From  his  youth  ho 
had  been  accustomed  to  mysterioiis  and 
solemn  scenes,  and  besides  the  indomita- 
ble courage  in  his  character  was  stim- 
ulated and  excited  by  the  contact  of 
what  might  be  danger;  so  ho  tin-ncd 
aside  toward  t!.o  spot  from  whence 
came  the  voice  that  uttered  undistin- 
guishable  words,  thinking,  "  It  is  prob- 
ably some  fanatic  who  beats  the  air 
and  defies  the  immovable  heavens,  or 
a  lunatic  poet  addressing  a  sonnet  to 
the  moon.  At  all  events,  I  will  know 
who  it  is." 

When  he  came  face  to  face  with  the 
man,  and  had  clearly  traced  the  outline 
of  form  and  features,  so  indistinct  in 
the  feeble  light,  he  seemed  more  startled 
than  a  bravo  man  shoidd  have  been, 
and  the  calm  words  he  began  to  ad- 
dress to  the  stranger  ended  in  an  excla- 
mation of  surprise. 

For  more  than  an  hour  the  Arch- 
deacon and  the  unfortunate  remained 
in  an  earnest  conversation,  during  which 
the  poor  vagrant  wept,  implored,  and 
promised,  while  Fabien  calmed,  urged, 
and   assured ;    then   he   left   him,  and 


: 


I 


■^t 


:-  iiiiiMiiMiMUWiwaMisswiwaa 


<niiiiitiiWMi.li 


immmmmmmntm  \  ■ 


22 


A  CnOWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


walked  slowly  hack  to  tho  chateau, 
savin;,'  now  ami  tlii-n  to  hiiusolf,  "  It  is 
most  fortiuiuto  for  mo.  I  can  make 
him  iisui'iil,  and  no  one  will  ever  dis- 
cover him  in  that  dis;,'uiBe." 

Tho  li;:hts  wore  cxtinj^nished  in  the 
salon,  (.'eluste  had  {^ono  homo,  acuom- 
paniud  hy  Fanchotte  and  Claude,  who 
both  declared  it  was  not  sale  for  two 
women  to  walk  alone  across  tho  park 
at  that  hour,  and  after  such  an  adven- 
ture. 

Fabien  hud  scarcely  entered  his  study 
when  some  one  tapped  at  the  door,  and, 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  throw  it 
open  impatiently,  and  entered  brusque- 
ly. It  was  Aimee.  Her  face  was  very 
pale,  her  teeth  firmly  set  together,  and 
iior  eyes  on  (ire.  These  were  portentous 
signs,  and  Fabien  understood  them. 

"  Wliat  is  it,  macherie?"  ho  inquired, 
sootiuugly,  as  he  drew  her  to  his 
side. 

She  did  not  notice  his  kind  speech 
nor  his  gentle  caress,  but,  disengaging 
herself  from  his  encircling  arm,  with  a 
gesture  of  impatience  she  commenced 
walking  tho  floor  rapidly. 

Tho  ])rie8t  said  nothing,  took  up  a 
book,  and,  apparently  began  to  read  ; 
but  all  the  while  his  gaze  was  fixed  on 
the  restless  movements  of  tho  young 
girl.  Suddenly  she  stopped  before  him, 
and  levelling  her  eyes  steadily  to  his 
sphinx-like  face,  said,  "  Have  you  been 
in  tho  park  to-night  1 " 
"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  see  any  one,  that  is,  any 
stranger  1 " 
"  Xo." 

"Did  you  come  up  tho  linden  ave- 
nue to  tho  chateau  ? "  , 
"  Yes." 

"  And  you  saw  no  one  1 " 
" I    saw  no  one ;    but   why  do  you 
ask    these   questions  1    whom   do    you 
think  I  have  seenr' 

"  The  same  person  I  have  seen,"  she 
replied,  with  a  shiver.  "  Wo  were  dan- 
cing in  the  salon,  when  suddenly  I  saw 
a  face,  a  horrid  white  face,  pressed 
against  the  glass  of  the  north  window, 
I  screamed,  and  ho  disappeared." 

"  My  child,"  said  Fabien,  firmly,  "  it 
was  nothing  but  your  imagination." 

"  My  imagination  !  "  she  cried,  draw- 
ing up  her  mouth  with  scorn.     "  Does 


imagination  suj)ply  people  to  talk  wilh 
you,  and  to  clasp  and  kiss  your  clothes  I 
I  toll  you  I  saw  and  spoke  to  tiiis  man. 
And  I  have  soon  his  lace  before,  where 
and  when  1  cannot  tell ;  but  1  have 
seen  it,  and  it  brougiit  back  some 
memory  like  a  horrid  nightmare." 

"  it  was  probably  some  half-insouo 
creature,"  said  the  priest,  gently.  "  It 
is  late ;  go  to  bed,  my  child,  and  think 
no  moro  of  it." 

"  I  cannot  help  thinking ;  tho  face 
and  tho  voice  haunt  mo,  and  fill  mo 
with  fear." 

.She  glanced  around  the  room,  and  for 
tho  first  time  tho  weird  oiijocts  seemed 
to  troiddo  her,  for  she  said,  "  How  tan 
you  live  in  this  gloomy  place  t  I  should 
go  mad  to  look  always  at  that  grinning 
skull." 

"My  child,"  said  Fabien,  solemnly, 
"  wo  are  all  grinning  skulls ;  and  later 
wo  too  shall  become  olyects  of  horror 
and  disgust  to  our  survivors.  It  is 
well  to  think  of  that,  and  then  wo 
shall  have  no  such  childish  aversion 
to  things  the  most  harmless  and  sim- 
ple." 

"  That  is  very  well  for  a  sermon,"  she 
returned,  with  a  mocking  luugh  ;  "  but 
now  confess,  would  you  not  lather  look 
at  the  lovely  Magdalen  clothed  with 
flesh,  than  these  dry  bones  ] " 

"J/ecfiante/"  he  replied,  flushinj» 
slightly.  "I  would  rather  look  at 
you."   ^ 

Aimeo  darted  a  withering  glance  to- 
ward him,  and,  without  replying,  hastily 
left  tho  room. 


PART  FIFTH. 

A   VAGRANT    CIIANOGD    TO    A    PRIEST. 

The  dressing-room  and  bedroom  of 
Fabien  opened  out  of  his  study,  and 
there  ho  retired  after  Aimeo  left  him. 
These  chambers  were  moro  luxurious 
than  austere  men  of  tho  Church  usually 
indulge  in.  Before  a  bright  wood-Sro 
stood  a  large  crimson  arm-chair,  and 
near  it  a  table,  on  which  were  arranged 
several  decanters  of  choice  wines,  a 
Turkish  pipe,  and  a  tray  of  cigars, 
the  odor  of  which  would  have  rejoiced 
the  olfactories  of  the   most   fastidious 


lo  to  talk  with 
i  your  clotliL'ti  I 
10  to  tliia  mail. 
I  before,  wlicio 
;  but  1  have 
it  buck  Bouic 
iyhtimue." 
no  hulf-insnuu 
,  jroutly.  "It 
lild,  and  think 

inp ;  tlio  face 
S   and  iill  nte 

)  room,  and  for 
•lijects  seemed 
id,  "  How  can 
icol  I  should 
timt  grinning 

ion,  solemnly', 
Us ;  and  hitor 
sets  of  horror 
I'ivors.  It  is 
and  then  wo 
dish  aversion 
less  and  sini- 

i  sermon,"  she 
liiugh  ;  "  but 

ot  rather  look 
clothed  with 

iV 

ied,    flushinj» 

;her    look    at 

ng  glance  to- 
)lyiny,  hastily 


A    PRIEST. 

bodroom  of 
s  study,  and 
Qco  left  him. 
3rc  luxurious 
uirch  usually 
sjht  wood-Sro 
•m-chair,  and 
rero  arranged 
ice  wines,  a 
y  of  cigars, 
have  rejoiced 
st   fastidious 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


23 


smoker.  Fabicn  doffed  his  priest's 
dress,  and  donned  a  purpli)  robe  dc 
chambre ;  then  pouring  out  a  glass  of 
sparkling  Laclnyma  VhrUti.  and  light- 
ing a  cigar  ho  throw  himself  back  in  his 
comfortable  ca-sy-chair  liko  one  prepared 
for  a  fircsido  ruvery. 

AVhat  iiis  thoughts  were  we  certainly 
cannot  tell,  but  wo  can  judge  they  were 
rather  troublesome  by  the  furious  cloud.s 
of  smoke  he  puffed  out,  and  the  restless 
way  in  which  ho  moved  his  feet,  threat- 
ening to  dislocate  the  slender  logs  of 
the  ottoman  on  which  they  rested.  Ho 
glanced  at  his  watch  ;  it  was  midnight, 
and  he  grew  silent  and  attentive  to  the 
slightest  sound.  An  owl  from  a  neigii- 
boring  tree  told  that  night  was  the 
time  for  dark  deeds ;  and  a  watch-dog 
chained  at  the  entrance  of  tiie  chateau 
barked  and  whined  as  tliough  he  desired 
to  break  his  fastenings  and  rush  upon 
some  nocturnal  prowler. 

Presently  there  was  a  light  tap  at 
the  window,  so  light  that  it  seemed  but 
the  rustle  of  a  dry  leaf  whirled  by  the 
wind.  Fabicn  started  up  briskly,  and, 
raising  the  curtain,  peered  out  j  then  he 
softly  undid  the  fastenings  of  the  case- 
ment, and  a  man  stepped  from  the 
darkness  of  the  terrace  into  the  room. 
He  glanced  around  eagerly.  The  warmth 
and  light  seemed  to  overcome  him,  for 
he  pressed  his  hands  over  his  eyes  and 
sank  into  a  chair  with  a  moan. 

The  Archdeacon  looked  at  him  with 
pity  ;  then  pouring  out  a  glass  of  wine 
he  gave  it  to  him,  saying,  "  Drink  this 
and  you  will  be  better." 

"  It  is  not  thirst,  monseigneur,  it  is 
hunger,"  he  said  as  he  took  the  glass 
with  a  trembling  hand. 

Fabien  opened  a  closet,  and  took 
from  it  a  loaf  of  bread  and  some  fro- 
vuige  de  Brie,  which  he  placed  before  the 
unfortunate,  who  devoured  them  raven- 
ously, gathering  up  with  his  thin  fingers 
every  crumb.  When  he  had  finished 
he  looked  up  like  a  hungry  dog  who 
has  only  half  appeased  his  appetite. 

The  priest  understood  the  expression, 
and  smiled  compassionately  as  he  said, 
"  That  will  do  for  to-night,  I  have  noth- 
ing more,  but  to-morrow  you  shall  eat 
your  fill." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  the  man  with  n 
look  of  gratitude  and  relief.     "  It  has 


been  so  long   since   I   had   enough   to 
eat." 

"Poor  soul!"  said  Fabicn,  "you 
shall  not  go  hungry  again  while  I  live. 
Now  for  the  transformation.  L'omo  with 
me."  And  ho  opened  softly  tiio  door  of 
his  dressing-room. 

Taking  from  a  wardrobe  a  suit  of 
plain  clothes  that  he  had  worn  in  his 
humbler  days,  he  gave  them  to  the  man, 
and,  laying  before  him  all  the  articles 
necessary  for  a  toilet,  said,  "  Make 
yourself  decent  as  quickly  as  possible. 
Shave  your  board,  and  cut  your  hair, 
and  you  will  not  recognize  yourself. 
These  rags  must  bo  concealed  for  the 
present,  and  afterwards  destroyed," 
pointing  to  the  tattered  garments  that 
the  man  was  rapidly  divesting  himself 
(if. 

Half  an  hour  later  Fabien  looked  up 
and  the  unfortunate  stood  before  him 
transformed  into  a  priest.  A  perfect 
specimen  of  the  stern  ascetic  type,  —  an 
emaciated  face,  great  hollow  eyes,  and 
a  narrow  fringe  of  clip])ed  gray  hair, 

"  That  is  well,"  said  the  Archdeacon 
with  satisfaction  ;  "  the  disguise  is  com- 
plete ;  your  mother,  if  she  could  see 
you,  would  not  recognize  you.  You  may 
sleep  here  for  the  remainder  of  the 
night,"  indicating  a  sofa  in  his  dressing- 
room,  "but  with  the  early  dawn  you 
must  slip  away  as  you  entered,  and  re- 
member to  present  yourself  to-morrow 
at  ten  o'clock  and  ask  for  me,  giving 
your  name  as  Pdre  Benoit  of  the  college 
of  St.  Vincent. 

The  new-made  priest  stood  before  his 
benefactor  in  a  humble  attitude,  his 
head  bent  and  his  hands  clasped  tightly. 
Ho  had  said  nothing,  for  various  and 
powerful  emotions  were  struggling  into 
expression,  and  his  heart  was  too  full  to 
find  utterance  suddenly.  At  length, 
when  the  Archdeacon  was  turning  to 
leave  him,  he  seized  his  hand,  and,  cov- 
ering it  with  tears  and  kisses,  cried, 
"  You  have  saved  me ;  henceforth  my 
life  is  yours  to  tise  as  you  wish.  I  urn 
your  slave,  do  with  mo  as  you  will." 

Fabien  drew  away  his  hand  as  if  the 
tears  burned  him,  and  said  kindly  but 
curtly,  "  Words  are  useless,  your  deeds 
will  best  show  your  gratitude  ;  j'ou  can 
serve  me,  and  you  are  willing,  that  is 
all  I  desire." 


-    iMwiiiwiiiitiwiiijiiiilwii^MttMWJiiiM^ 


24 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


PART    SIXTfl. 

YOU    MUHT   UIX'IUK    VOli    YOUaSELF. 

WiiKN  ('liiiulo  Htiirtod  to  walk  ncrosH 
tlic  park  with  Ct'lcsto  iind  Funchettc, 
he  hml  decided  to  j)iit,  liis  f'lito  to  t!ie 
test  by  tiHkiiiij;  tlio  l^ily  to  beeoiiio  his 
wife,  lie  loved  lier,  lie  hud  loved  her 
for  two  yeiirs,  iind  he  intended  to  ninke 
her  Countess  of  ('Icrniont.  It  had  been 
hia  deeision  from  the  first,  but  for  some 
reason,  although  they  saw  caeh  other 
often,  the  opportunity  to  declare  his 
love  had  never  oceurred  ;  he  was  sure 
(.'elesto  returned  his  ntt'eetion,  and  in 
the  security  of  this  eonvietiou  ho  had 
remained  silent.  Now  he  felt  the  time 
to  speak  had  arrived,  and  ho  was  deter- 
mined to  delay  no  lonj;er. 

It  was  a  moonless  night,  but  the 
air  was  keen  and  clear,  and  the  Milky 
Way  made  a  luminous  jiath  across  the 
wilderness  of  the  heavens.  The  au- 
tumn leaves  and  the  cones  of  the  pines 
crackled  under  their  feet,  the  wind 
moaned  ainon^  the  dried  branches  like 
a  lost  spirit  doomed  to  wail  forever 
over  barren  ])l:iins  and  leafless  trees, 
and  the  darkness  seemed  filled  with 
the  mnrumring  of  invisible  sorrows. 
Yet  they  did  not  feel  the  depressing 
influence,  for  they  were  in  the  youth  of 
life  and  the  now  moon  of  love,  and  to 
them  thefo  was  no  dreary  night,  no 
dead  leaves,  no  weird  branches,  no 
moaning  wind.  They  walked  within 
the  walls  of  paradise,  and  light,  music, 
and  flowers  sprang  into  life  as  they 
passed. 

Fanchette  was  diplomatic,  and,  desir- 
ing to  see  her  young  mistress  a  count- 
ess, she  lingered  behind,  so  she  did  not 
hear  the  conversation  ;  neither  did  wc, 
and  for  that  reason  wo  cannot  give  it 
literally.  However,  when  they  parted 
at  the  door  of  the  Chateau  Monthelon, 
while  Fanchette  was  looking  at  the 
constellations  of  the  heavens,  Claude 
imprinted  the  first  kiss  of  love  on  the 
trembling  lips  of  Celeste  in  return  for 
a  sweet  little  "yes  "she  had  whispered 
after  some  maidenly  hesitation. 

"  To-moiTow  I  will  speak  to  Father 
Fabien,"  he  said.  Then  ho  pressed  the 
hand  that  lay  in  his,  nodded  signifi- 
cantly to  Fanchette,  and  went  away 
exulting  like  a   king,  a   hero,   a  great 


general  who  had  won  an  important  bat- 
tle with  all  the  chanccH  against  him. 
lie  congratulated  himself  that  he  had 
gained  a  victory,  when  in  fact  tho 
enemy  had  surrendered,  the  citadel  had 
fallen  at  tho  first  shot,  nlinost  before 
the  siege  commenced.  Nevertheless 
he  believed  himself  to  be  a  hero ;  i:i 
that  he  was  deluded,  but  his  joy  was 
real.  His  heart  was  as  light  i,i  air, 
and  his  feet  seemed  to  partake  of  tho 
same  lightness,  for  ho  bounded  over  tho 
low  fence  that  separated  the  two  parks 
with  tho  agility  of  a  deer,  and  almost 
ran  into  the  arms  of  two  men  who  were 
earnestly  talking  together  in  the  shadow 
of  a  great  trunk. 

(.'laudc  was  a  little  startled  at  first, 
but  recognizing  Fabien  in  tho  taller 
figure,  and  being  too  happy  for  suspi- 
cion, he  merely  glanced  at  them  and 
hastened  toward  tho  chateau. 

Celeste,  jianting  under  the  burden  of 
her  first  secret,  her  heart  beating  tu- 
multuously  in  her  rosy  ears,  her  cliceks 
aglow,  and  her  lips  warm  with  l;er  lov- 
er's first  kiss,  flew  to  her  room  that  she 
might  be  alone  to  think  over  that  brief 
moment  of  joy. 

Tho  ne.\t  morning  Aimeo  tapped  at 
tho  door  of  the  Archdeacon's  study, 
and  while  she  paused  a  moment  for 
an  answer  it  was  thrown  open  and 
a  strange  priest  came  out.  \Vlicn  his 
eyes  fell  upon  her,  he  started  as  though 
he  had  been  shot,  and  turned,  if  possi- 
ble, to  a  more  deathly  pallor. 

Tho  girl  flashed  a  glance  straight 
through  all  disguises,  and  rccogni/ed  in 
the  priest  the  unfortunate  who,  tho 
night  before,  had  clasped  and  kissed  the 
hem  of  her  dress.  Passing  him  like  au 
arrow  from  a  bow,  she  darted  into  the 
presence  of  Fabien,  and  almost  startled 
him  out  of  his  composure  by  exclaiming, 
in  a  clear  and  confident  voice,  "  That 
is  the  old  man  who  disturbed  us  lu?<t 
night ;  who  is  he  1 " 

"  You  must  be  mistaken,  my  child," 
replied  tho  priest  very  firmly  and  calm- 
ly. "  He  is  P6re  Benoit,  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  a  teacher  in  the  college  of 
St.  Vincent." 

"  NHwpm\c  .'  she  replied  with  an 
indisputable  i;ir  of  conviction.  "  Ho 
may  be  St.  Vincent  himself  for  aught  T 
know,  but  be  is  uouc  the  less  the  nuui 


inportaut  l)af,- 
iif^'ftinst  him. 
tllllt    111!   liiul 

in  i'lict  tho 
10  citadel  had 
idiiioMt  before 

NcvertlielesH 
!  a   lioro ;  i:i 

his  joy  was 

li;;l>t  i.i  air, 
irtakc  of  tlio 
ided  over  tho 
:lio  two  parks 
•,  nnd  idniost 
\vn  who  wore 
in  tlic  shadow 

tied  at  first, 
n  tho  tailor 
py  for  suspi- 
it  them  aud 
an. 

he  burden  of 
t  bcfttinj^  tu- 
•8,  her  cheeks 
with  l;er  lov- 
oom  that  she 
er  that  brief 

^0  tapped  at 
[icon's  study, 
moment  for 
n  open  and 
.  When  his 
ed  as  though 
ned,  if  possi- 
or. 

inco  straight 
rccogni/od  in 
to  who,  tho 
lid  kissed  the 
;  him  like  an 
•ted  into  the 
most  startled 
y  exclaiming, 
I'oico,  "That 
rbed  us  lu-it 

n,  my  child," 

ily  and  calm- 

a  friend  of 

le  college  of 

ied  with  an 
3tion.  "  He 
'  for  aught  T 
less  the  man 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


25 


v,'ho  knelt  on  tlio  terrace  and  kissed  tho 
hcni  of  my  dross." 

Fabien  looked  at  her  and  smiled  in- 
dulgently, as  ono  would  at  a  wilful 
child  whoso  opinion  is  not  worth  dis- 
puting. 

Her  faco  turned  crimson,  and  her 
eyes  flashod  preparatory  to  an  outburst, 
which  was  i)iovented  by  a  tap  at  tho 
door,  and  Claude  entering. 

"  I  am  more  than  fortunate  this 
morning  in  tho  number  of  my  visitors," 
said  tho  Archdeacon  with  stately  but 
satirical  courtosy,  as  ho  pusliod  a  chair 
toward  tho  new-comer. 

"  I  shoidd  like  a  littlo  private  con- 
versation with  you,  if  it  will  not  in- 
convenience you,"  returned  Claude, 
glancing  at  Aimdo,  who  was  making 
disdainful  grimaces  behind  Fabien's 
back  as  she  pointed  to  tho  heteroge- 
neous collection  on  the  table.  Noticing 
Claude's  glance,  and  angry  that  ho 
sliould  liave  any  secret  from  her,  she 
throw  an  old  parchment  she  held  in 
her  hand  with  such  force  against  the 
tripod  that  it  made  the  bronze  cat  clat- 
ter, and  elicited  a  gentle  remonstrance 
from  the  Archdeacon. 

"There  seem  to  bo  a  great  many 
mysterious  things  hero,"  she  said,  glan- 
cing reproachfully  at  Claude  and  scorn- 
fully at  Fabien  as  she  left  tho  room, 
closing  tho  door  with  a  sharp  bang. 

Tho  Archdeacon  and  Claude  main- 
tained a  silence  of  some  moments  after 
Aimuc  wc!it  out,  each  waiting  for  tho 
other  to  make  the  first  remark. 

It  is,  no  doubt,  a  trying  piece  of 
business  for  a  shy  aud  modest  youth  to 
confess  his  love  to  the  object  of  his 
devotion,  even  when  he  may  know  that 
ho  will  not  be  repulsed,  and  that  all  tho 
fair  recipient's  interest  is  enlisted  in  his 
favor.  But  how  much  more  difficult  to 
sit  calmly  down,  free  from  the  sweet 
excitement  of  the  angel's  presence,  and 
tell  to  a  cold  and  disinterested  listener 
the  story  of  his  first  love  ;  its  birth, 
its  growth,  its  maturity ;  and  then  de- 
mand formally,  practically,  and  with 
conscious  irony,  permission  to  marry 
this  chosen  being,  whom  ho  knows  he 
shall  marry  whether  permission  be 
given  or  not. 

Claude  Wiis  young,  and  Claude  was 
shy ;  and,  besides,  there  was  no  sympa- 


thy between  him  and  his  guardian. 
For  sonio  time  it  had  boon  dawning 
upon  him  that,  though  nominally  the 
master,  he  was  actually  the  subject ; 
that  tlie  strong  will  and  jjcrsevering 
energy  of  his  tutor  had  fettered  him 
with  chains  ho  could  not  tlm^w  ofl'. 
.\t  first  ho  had  not  tried,  and  later, 
when  ho  wished  to,  liis  gentle  utsoiiciaiite 
nature  preferred  peace  rather  than  a 
severe  struggle  ;  so  ho  lot  matters  take 
their  course,  and  submitted  to  being 
littlo  more  than  an  automaton  in  tho 
ilirection  of  his  own  atlairs.  Ihit  love 
had  emboldened  him,  and  now  ho  was 
determined  to  marry  Celeste  iMouthelon 
with  or  without  her  guardian's  consent. 
So  it  w.as  with  more  manly  courage 
than  Fabien  would  have  aircrodited  to 
him  that  ho  said,  "  Tho  subject  1  wish 
to  speak  of  is  this :  1  lyxvc  asked 
.Mademoiselle  Monthelon  to  bo  my 
wife,  she  has  consented,  and  wo  await 
your  sanction.  Can  wo  depend  upon 
itl" 

A  hectic  flush  dyed  for  a  moment  tho 
check  of  the  Archdeacon,  aud  his  eyes 
grew  restless  while  his  fingers  moved 
with  a  scarcely  perceptible  writhing 
motion,  peculiar  to  him  when  laboring 
under  a  suppressed  excitement.  Yet 
ho  said  with  his  usual  calm,  though 
perhaps  an  inflection  more  of  force  in 
his  voice  than  Claude  liked  to  hoar, 
"  Would  your  father,  if  he  were  living, 
approve  of  this  marriage?  Would  he 
sanction  an  alliance  with  tho  child  of  a 
manufacturer  whom  ho  despised  and 
considered  an  inferior'?  Should  a  son 
of  one  of  the  oldest  and  noblest  families 
of  France  mairy  with  a  daughter  of 
tho  people?  I  repeat  again,  if  your 
father  were  living  would  he  consent  to 
this  marriage  ? " 

Claude  worshipped  the  memory  of 
his  father,  and  no  stronger  argimient 
than  his  disapproval  could  have  been 
used  against  his  cause.  For  a  moment 
it  startled  and  confused  him  ;  then  his 
love  gained  the  ascendency,  and  he 
raised  his  head,  and  said,  firmly, 
"  IC  my  father  had  lived  to  know 
Mademoiselle  Monthelon,  I  believe  ho 
would  have  loved  her,  and  forgotten  his 
prejudices  against  her  position.  And  I 
have  such  confidence  in  his  love  for  me, 
that  I  am  sure  he  would  havo  made 


ii»g 


aiMutlmMiiuiD^mmmitmi 


IWIWIKII   . 


2G 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


nny  Hacrifieo  for  my  Imppinesa.  Ct'-lestc 
is  jouiij;,  lovfly,  iiikI  riili.  Wo  liivvc 
known  each  otlior  Croni  cliiltlliood.  Our 
eatiitcH  join  °,  united,  wliut  a  nol)lo  prop- 
erty it  would  lioconie.  IJnt  nioro  than 
all  woildly  ftdviintsit^es,"  hcio  liis  voice 
took  u  doL-per  tone  of  i)rido  and  re- 
Holvo.  "  slio  loves  nic,  and  1  adoro  lier. 
Tiien  wliat  can  ho  a  more  suituhlc  alli- 
ance ] " 

Claude  paused,  and  looked  nt  the 
Archdeacon  an  thou^^h  ho  believed  his 
words  had  carried  conviction  with  them, 
and  had  shattered  at  one  blow  the  frail 
barrier  he  woidd  oppose. 

"  You  must  decide  for  yourself,"  said 
Fabion,  deliberately',  after  a  few  mo- 
ments of  deep  thoujiht,  —  "  you  must 
decide  for  yourself,  but  /  shall  reserve 
the  right  to  decide  for  my  ward,  Mad- 
emoiselle Monthelon." 

"  And  you  will  decide  against  me," 
replied  Claude,  bitterly.  "  I  am  con- 
vinced that  you  will  strive  to  make  me 
miserable,  but  j-ou  will  not  succeed, 
for  I  am  determined  she  shall  be  my 
wife ;  I  love  her,  and  nothing  sliall  part 
us."  And  as  he  spoke,  he  rose  ex- 
citedh',  and  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

This  was  the  first  time  the  docile 
pupil  had  rebelled,  and  the  Archdeacon, 
believing  ho  had  sounded  the  depths  of 
the  yoimg  count's  nature,  was  surprised 
at  this  new  development.  Here  was 
determination  and  courage  lie  had  not 
prepared  himself  to  struggle  with  ;  yet 
he  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  Lay- 
ing his  hand  heavily  on  the  shoulder 
of  Claude,  and  fixing  him  with  his 
clear,  intense  gaze,  he  said,  between  his 
clenched  teeth,  "  Now  it  is  your  turn  to 
listen  to  me.  I  have  an  account  to 
Bettle  with  you.  What  can  you  say 
in  regard  to  j'our  intentions  toward 
Aimee,  my  other  ward]  You  have 
won  the  love  of  this  poor  child  with 
false  professions,  and  now  you  intend  to 
desert  her  for  another." 

Claude  stood  aghast.  "I  do  not 
quite  understand  you,"  he  faltered ; 
"Aim6e!  I  have  thought  of  her  only 
OS  a  sister.  We  have  been  like  brother 
and  sister  from  childhood,  she  loves  me 
as  a  brother. " 

"  She  loves  you  deeply,  passionately, 
with  all  the  strength  of  her  strong  na- 
ture, and  you  will  desert  her  and  marry 


another.  It  will  kill  her !  "  cried  the 
priest  with  frenzy  in  his  voice. 

Something  had  escaped  from  his  heart 
in  this  moment  uf  excitement  that  he 
did  not  intend  to  reveal ;  so  instantly 
crushing  his  emotion,  anu  changing  his 
voice,  he  continued  calndy,  "  1  have 
done  wrong  to  betray  the  jxjor  child'.! 
secret.  It  is  only  lately  tliat  1  have 
known  it,  otherwise  I  would  not  have 
exposed  her  to  your  dangerous  compan- 
ionship. You  have  trifleil  with  Ainiee, 
whether  intentionally  or  thoughtlessly 
I  cannot  tell ;  then  how  can  1  be  assured 
of  the  sincerity  of  your  aH'ection  for 
.Mademoiselle  Monthelon  ] " 

"  It  is  not  necessary  i/ou  should  bo 
assured.  If  Celeste  is  convinced  of  my 
love,  that  is  sufficient,"  returned  Cla\ide 
haughtily  and  ajigrily.  *'  1  only  pray 
that  3'ou  will  save  yourself  the  trouble 
of  putting  obstacles  in  my  path,  for, 
whatever  they  may  bo,  I  have  the 
strength  and  the  will  to  overcome 
them."  And  with  this  ho  went  out 
and  left  the  Archdeacon  alone  to  think 
of  what  he  had  said. 

When  Claude  rushed  out  into  the 
open  air,  the  hot  blood  was  seething 
through  his  veins,  anger,  disappoint- 
ment, contempt,  and  astonishment  were 
all  struggling  together  in  his  vexed 
soul.  Hitherto  ho  had  experienced  no 
stronger  emotion  than  love,  his  heart 
had  been  a  stranger  to  resentment  and 
suspicion.  Now  he  seemed  to  bo  in 
the  midst  of  a  whirlwind  of  conflicting 
passions,  the  strongest  of  which  was 
indignation  at  the  unjust  accusation  of 
the  Archdeacon  that  he  had  trifled  with 
the  girl  whom  he  had  loved  and  cher- 
ished as  a  sister.  Then  a  new  thought 
dawned  upon  his  mind.  The  priest  was 
ambitious  for  this .  girl,  who  must  be 
connected  with  him  by  some  tie  stronger 
than  friendship ;  he  was  ambitious,  and 
wished  to  see  her  Countess  of  Clermont. 
Now  that  ho  imagined  he  had  discov- 
ered a  motive  for  his  guardian's  strange 
conduct,  he  was  a  little  appeased  and 
walked  more  calmly  toward  Monthelon, 
for  he  wished  to  see  Celeste,  to  prepare 
her  for  possible  obstacles,  and  to  con- 
jure her  to  be  firm  and  faithful  under 
every  trial. 

For  some  moments  the  Archdeacon 
stood  whore  Claude  had  left  him,  his 


A  CROWN   FROM  TIIK  SPEAR. 


ST 


•!"  crioil  tho 

I'ii-'o. 

rroiii  liJH  licnrt 

inoiit  that  lio 

;  HO  iiiHtiuitly 

chiuijriii;,'  his 
ily,  "  I  Imvo 
!  Jioor  cliild'd 
timt  1  hiivo 
ill!  not  have 
rolls  coinjmn- 

witli  Aiinue, 
thoii^'litlessly 
I  J  ho  UMHurt'il 
aH'oction   for 

m  should  ho 
inced  of  my 
limed  Claudo 
I  only  priiy 
'  tho  trouble 
ly  ])iith,  for, 
I  hiivo  tho 
.0    overcome 

0  went  out 
ono  to  think 

ut   into  the 

vaa  seething 

disappoint- 

shment  were 

1  his  vexed 
pcrieneed  no 
e,  his  heart 
ntnicnt  and 
;d  to  bo  in 
f  conflicting 

which  was 
cciisation  of 

trifled  with 
d  and  cher- 
lew  thought 
le  priest  was 
lo  must   be 

tie  stronger 
bitious,  and 
)f  Clermont, 
had  discoT- 
an's  strange 
tpcased  and 
Monthclon, 
,  to  prepare 
md  to  con- 
thful  under 

Archdeacon 
)flt  him,  his 


liands  clenched  and  his  eyes  fixed  on 
tho  flour.  Tlien  ho  said  with  a  pro- 
found si;.;h,  sliiikiug  his  hoad  mourn- 
fully, "llo  docs  not  lovo  her,  ho  does 
not  lovo  hor.  Poor  child  !  I  foresee 
tears  and  sorrow  for  her.  Sho  loves 
liim  and  sho  will  sufl'cr  for  him.  That 
is  another  incentive  to  rovengo.  lla.sh, 
detiant  fool  I  does  ho  think  to  sweep 
mo  away  with  a  blow  of  his  hand,  a^i 
one  does  a  gnat  that  stings  1  Before 
this  new  moan  of  lovo  grows  old,  I  will 
touch  him  the  strength  of  my  opposition. 
I  have  other  designs  for  my  ward,  the 
fair  Lily  must  be  transplanted  to  anoth- 
er garden."  And  with  these  oracular 
words  he  turned  to  his  crucible,  shook 
togotlier  vehcmontly  somo  dilTercnt  col- 
ored liquids,  kindled  a  firo  in  tiio  tripod, 
turned  his  hour-glass,  and  sot  himself 
down  to  a  chemical  experiment  as  ener- 
getically and  resolutely  as  though  he 
expected  thereby  to  discover  a  remedy 
for  tho  difficulties  that  had  arisen  dur- 
ing the  iutorview  with  his  defiant  pupil. 


PART    SEVENTH. 

THERE  IS  BUT  ONE  MAY  IN  A  TEAR. 

It  was  ono  of  those  brilliant  and  ex- 
hilarating mornings  in  May  that  so  often 
follow  a  succession  of  dreary  days ; 
when  the  sun  shines  like  a  child  who 
laughs  with  all  its  heart,  after  having 
wept  much ;  when  the  earth  seems  to 
throb  with  the  new  life  that  runs 
through  its  veins ;  when  the  buds  burst 
into  blossom  almost  while  we  gaze  upon 
them ;  when  the  harebells  and  half- 
fledged  ferns  murmur  and  whisper  to- 
gether like  young  lovers  with  heads 
touching ;  when  the  sluggish  blood  of 
ago  and  the  warm  blood  of  youth  quick- 
en into  a  more  fervent  flow  ;  when  the 
heart  dances  in  the  Iwsom  of  the  happy, 
and  even  the  lips  of  the  sorrowful  trem- 
ble with  a  smile. 

"  Nature  is  in  fete  this  morning,"  said 
the  Archdeacon,  as  ho  stepped  from  his 
room  on  to  the  terrace.  Throwing  back 
bis  shoulders,  ho  inhaled  with  intense 
satisfaction  a  long  breath  of  pure  air, 
while  his  eyes  wandered  down  the  shady 
walks,  bordered  with  acacia,  toward  the 


iilwfjiii^yi 


Seine,  whoso  serpentine  track  fipnrklud 
hero  and  there  through  tho  shrubbery. 
After  he  had  gazed  for  a  i'i^w  nidiiu'nls 
on  the  ex()uisito  scene,  he  walked  slowly 
across  tho  terrace,  stooping  often  over  a 
blussomiiig  border  to  examine  with  tiie 
closest  scrutiny  some  flower  that  at- 
tracted his  attention.  Plucking  a  bunch 
of  scarlet  geranium  thiit  flaunted  in 
tho  sun,  ho  looked  at  it  curiously,  in- 
(luiringly,  touching  almost  toiule;ly  its 
velvet  jietals.  "  What  wonderful  de- 
sign is  displayed  here,"  ho  said;  "how 
simple,  and  yet  how  jwriect ;  how  ono 
part  is  adapted  to  tho  other  with  a  sub- 
tle mechanism  that  defies  imitation  I 
Who  jdunned  this  delicate  yet  marvel- 
lous thing  1  Who  touched  it  with  flame, 
and  wove  it  into  a  tissue  of  matchless 
beauty  1  Those  who  would  bo  wiser 
than  their  Creator,  say  it  is  luit  chunco. 
How  tho  simple  things  of  creation  con- 
found tho  falso  reasoning  of  tho  scholar ! 
It  is  well  that  those  desiring  to  be  infi- 
dels are  dull  and  stupid  to  sucli  wonder- 
ful revelations.  I  have  studied  and  in- 
vestigated, believing  that  science  would 
confound  religion,  but  it  is  in  vain  ;  the 
most  inferior  creation  of  God  puts  it  to 
shame."  The  face  that  had  beamed  for 
a  moment  under  tho  glorious  light  of 
nature  suddenly  clouded  over,  and  a 
profound  sadness  filled  his  voico  as  ho 
continued  :  "  I  nm  a  contradiction  to 
myself.  I  would  bo  a  stoic,  and  I  can- 
not. I  doubt,  and  I  believe  even  while 
I  doubt.  I  am  utterly  reckless  and  un- 
scrupulous in  many  things,  and  yet  I 
trust  and  hope  like  a  child.  Why  does 
God  send  such  days  1  They  but  soften 
the  heart  and  draw  it  away  from  its 
purpose.  It  is  better  to  bo  deaf  and 
blind  than  to  be  constantly  invaded  by 
these  influences  of  nature."  Ho  fol- 
lowed his  winding  walk  along  tho  edge 
of  the  river,  now  and  then  pausing  to 
examine  a  curiously  striped  l)utterfly 
fluttering  from  flower  to  flower,  ur  a  liz- 
ard stretching  its  graceful  lon-fth  in  tiio 
warmth  of  the  sun,  or  the  incessant 
struggling  of  life  represented  by  un  ant- 
hill ;  these  seemed  to  absnb  him,  in 
fact  the  most  iusigniflcunt  things  inter- 
ested him,  and  one  seeing  hiin  would 
have  declared  him  to  be  a  naturalist 
searching  for  new  specimens  of  insect 
creation. 


.8jiajak#!iii*jwBi!riija>ii.:jj 


£-LiaiiM]j&jaaMflijiijiii.iji.:8.,'  s'' 


28 


A  CROWN   FROM   THE  Sl'KAIl. 


And  HO  pmintorinR  iil'ni;:,  <lio  Archdoii- 
Con  turned  ii  MTpriitiiic  piitli  itnd  citinu 
Hiiddcnl}'  iipuii  twu  pcrsoiiM  sitting  nn  ii 
Ntoiic  Ih'iicIi,  nciir  nii  ancient  fountitin, 
oviTKlmdnwcd  liy  rows  and  Iiinicl.  One 
was  a  vi>nii;4  man  with  a  liook  in  iiis 
liiind,  and  liis  liiad  hcnt  ovov  the  Iniuk. 
Till'  othi'i"  a  girl,  lier  olbow  resting  on 
lier  knee,  her  open  j)ahn  supporting  her 
cheek,  and  her  eyes  devouring  the  faeo 
of  her  tiiuipanion.  The  young  man 
was  <'laude.     Tlie  girl  was  Aimeo. 

'i'lie  eheek  of  Kabion  l)huiched,  and 
ho  turned  li  istily  away  without  being 
seen.  "lie  does  not  love  her,"  he 
thouglit,  "  ho  does  not  lovo  her  ;  if  he 
loved  iier  he  would  look  at  her  inntcad 
of  his  luiok.  And  she  —  she  loves  him, 
and  will  never  lovo  another.  I  know 
Iier  nat  ure,  h\\o  will  be  coiiHtiuit  to  tiiis 
fatal  uil'ection.  Poor  ehild  !  why  did  I 
^  not  foresee  this  danger  for  her?  Ah! 
what  a  temj)cst  there  will  be  when  she 
knows  ho  loves  Celeste."  With  these 
unhajjpy  thonghts  tilling  his  heart,  he 
turned  into  a  walk  that  led  to  the  chu- 
toan,  and,  raising  his  eyes,  a  vision  of 
placid  beauty  suddenly  appeared  before 
him. 

Mademoiselle  Afonthelon  was  coming 
slowly  down  the  avenue,  between  the 
rows  of  shining  laurel.  The  sunlight 
flickered  over  her  white  dress  and  yel- 
low hair,  and  in  her  white  hands  w^as  a 
tangled  mass  of  violets  and  daisies.  She 
did  not  see  the  priest,  but  came  softly 
toward  him,  her  eyes  fixed  on  her 
flowers,  a  smile  dimpling  her  mouth  and 
trembling  under  her  downcast  lids. 
«What  a  sweet,  frail  thing  she  was,  so 
delicate,  so  gentle  and  innocent !  and 
yet  the  Archdeacon,  as  ho  looked  at  her, 
liated  her  bitterly,  for  she  had  come  be- 
tween him  and  his  fondly  cherished 
jdans,  and  he  was  determined  she  should 
bo  swept  aside  as  one  would  sweep  away 
the  fallen  leaf  of  a  rose.  Fair  and  gen- 
tle, a  very  lilj'  of  purity,  she  nuist  be 
crushed  and  blighted  for  his  ambitioi^. 

"  A  title  for  my  Aim^e,  a  convent  for 
Celeste ;  Monthelon  for  the  Church,  and 
—  and  a  dead  heart  for  me,"  he  mut- 
tered, turning  toward  the  girl  and  ad- 
dressing her  with  a  more  gentle  voice 
and  a  more  gracious  manner  than  usual. 

"You  see  I  am  alone,"  sho  said,  in 
reply   to   his  salutation.      "  Fanchette 


stepped  aside  to  gather  some  briorroRcs 
lor  my  bouijuet,  while   1    walked  on  in 

you   tell   mo 


Can 


search    of    Aim(''C. 
where  sho  is  I" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Fabien,  fixing  his 
piercing  eyes  steailily  on  the  face  of 
the  girl ;  "sho  is  with  i/oiir  li>i<et\" 

Celeste  flushecl  rosy  red  at  the  terra 
so  startling  and  yet  so  delightfid,  and 
said,  with  a  little  touch  of  jeahaisy  in 
her  voice,  "  1  thought  he  woidd  have 
come  to  walk  with  mo  this  lovtly  morn- 
iug."  ^ 

"  They  are  evidently  very  hajipy  in 
each  other's  society,"  returned  the 
priest,  insinuatingly. 

C(!'lesto  fingered  her  violets  nervously, 
with  a  troubled  e.\j)ression  on  her  face, 
while  the  Archdeacon  went  on  to  sow 
tho  first  seeds  of  suspicion  in  her  gentle 
heart. 

"  Trust  to  notliirg  ;  there  is  nothing 
true  but  religion,'  ho  said  ;  "  it  is  tho 
( nly  thing  that  nil  not  deceive  you; 
it  is  a  sure  and  saf.;  anchor  for  tho  soul. 
The  heart  of  ma:i  is  foclile  and  uncer- 
tain, and  love  is  like  tho  wind  that 
changes  each  day  Jly  child,  school 
your  heart  to  bent  disajjpointnient  and 
sorrow.  Itemember  tho  sun  does  not 
always  shine,  and  there  is  but  one  May 
in  a  year." 

"  Tiuit  is  true,"  she  replied,  while  a 
bn^iit  smile  chased  away  tho  cloud 
from  her  face ;  *'  but  there  are  other 
months  ns  fair  as  May,  and  love  mokes 
simlight  always," 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  there  is  so  little  love, 
and  so  few  arc  constant.  And  then,  a 
youth  does  not  understand  his  own 
heart  ;  the  first  emotion  he  experiences 
ho  imagines  to  be  love." 

"  0  moH  ji^re  I "  she  cried,  with 
mingled  trust  and  doubt  in  her  voice, 
"  you  cannot  moan  that  Claude  has 
deceived  me,  that  he  does  not  love  me, 
that  —  that  he  is  mistaken  iu  thinking 
he  loves  mo  ] " 

"  My  ehild,"  said  Fabien,  looking 
into  her  face  with  gentle  inten^st,  "  it 
is  most  painful  to  me  to  tell  you  this, 
but  I  fear  he  has  deceived  you.  I 
believe  ho  loves  another." 

"Who?"  sho  gasped,  letting  the 
violets  fall  from  her  hands,  as  though 
they  wero  smitten  with  palsy. 

"  You  shall  BOO  for  yourselt'."    And 


CROWN  FROM  TIIK  SV 


^  liriorroHCH 
liked  on  in 
>u   toll   mo 

fixing'  liJH 
till!  face  of 
foirr." 
t  tlio  term 
[.'litful,  imd 
jt'ulouMy  in 
vould  liuvo 
)VLly  niorn- 

y  Impi.y  in 
uniL'd    tlic 

nervouHly, 

II   llLT  fiitc, 

(HI   to  sow 

her  gentlo 

in  nothing 
"  it  is  the 
eeive  ynti  ; 
jr  (ho  Houl. 
uud  unccr- 
wiiid  that 
ild,  school 
tniont  and 
1  does  not 
it  ouo  May 

k1,  while  a 
tlio  cloud 
are  other 

ove  makes 

little  love, 
ud  then,  a 
I  his  own 
jxperionces 

ricd,  with 
her  voice, 
laudo  has 
t  love  me, 
1  thinking 

a,   looking 

tcrest,  "  it 

you  this, 

1  you.     I 

itting  the 
as  though 

Y- 

elf."    Aud 


lie  turned  toward  the  laiirel-Hhadcd 
fountiiin. 

('huidu  Htill  read,  and  Aimeo  Htill 
gazed  into  his  (uco.  The  youth's  eyes 
were  bent  upon  liis  l)ook,  hut  his  iiand 
lay  with  a  euressin;^  touch  on  the  head 
of  his  com|)nnion. 

(Vilesto  took  in  the  living  jiieturo  at 
n  glance,  and  long  after  it  haunted  her 
with  its  grace  and  beauty.  She  said 
not  a  word,  l)iit  clasping  her  haud 
tiglitly  over  her  heart,  turned  away, 
followed  by  her  guardian. 

Neither  spoke  until  they  reached  the 
end  of  the  laurel  walk,  and  went  out  of 
the  flickering  sunlight  into  the  sluidowy 
avenue  of  elms  ;  tlien  Celeste  raised  a 
sorrow-sti  ickcn  face,  and  said,  in  a  voice 
burdened  with  tears,  "  It  is  true,  there 
is  but  one  May  in  a  year." 


PART  EIGHTH. 

THE   HEART   OP    A   PHIEST   18    THE    HEART 
OF    A    MAN. 

Pere  Bexoit  of  the  collego  of  St. 
ViTicent  and  the  Archdeacon  were  often 
chisetcd  together  for  long  honi-s,  and  in 
the  mysterious  study  there  was  much 
investigation  that  was  not  of  a  strictly 
scientiiic  cliaractor.  The  inlaid  cabinet 
that  had  been  stuffed  from  time  imme- 
morial with  musty,  dusty,  yellow  papers, 
the  chronicles  of  all  the  Clennonts,  was 
emptied  of  its  contents,  examined  in 
every  part,  tapped  upon,  and  thumped 
upon,  after  the  manner  of  a  physician 
who  would  like  to  discover  a  disease  in 
a  perfectly  sound  chest ;  but  all  in  vain, 
for  the  old  cabinet  was  as  intact  as  the 
most  exasperatingly  healthy  person  who 
ever  defrauded  a  doctor  of  a  patient. 
There  were  no  holes  but  tiny  worm- 
holes,  that  were  too  small  to  conceal 
anything  larger  than  the  worms  that 
bored  them ;  there  were  no  secret 
drawers,  no  double  panek ;  it  was  a 
very  simple  piece  of  furniture  as  far  as 
mechanism  was  displayed,  but  it  seemed 
to  have  a  strange  interest  for  the 
men  who  examined  it.  The  Archdeacon 
wiped  away  the  perspiration  from  his 
forehead  as  he  assisted  P6re  Benoit  to 
return  it  to  its  place  against  the  Flan- 


ders leather  \m\  'ins,  '<"'  >t  ••■  vcrr 
heavy,  and  such  i  rtion  wiim  nusiiHt 
'I'hen  they  replaced  liie  dniwi  r».  uimI 
rearranged  the  dried  bats  and  hi  tpcrU* 
on  tlieir  dusty  shelves,  closed  tlic^  glu)l^ 
doors,  and  set  to  work  to  exuniino  eare 
fully  the  pile  of  papers  that  lay  on  the 
floor.  Kabion's  brow  wrinkled  nioro 
than  once  with  dissatisfaction  as  hu 
throw  one  after  another  aside,  until  ho 
had  gonu  over  all  and  found  nothing 
he  desired  to  find. 

Afterwards  they  heM  a  long  and  con- 
fidential discourse,  in  which  they  ex- 
pressed their  surprise,  regiit,  and 
mutual  disappointini'ut  at  the  failure 
of  their  search,  and  their  firm  deter- 
mination to  continue  an  investigation 
which  was  not  to  bo  baflled  by  tho  tirst 
ill  success. 

No  one  seemed  to  like  this  haggard- 
faced,  hollow-eyed  PtSro  Benoit.  As  did 
tho  man  without  a  shadow,  ho  carried 
fear  and  distrust  wherever  ho  went. 
Tho  servants  at  Clermont  eyed  him 
askance,  although  ho  was  very  gentlo 
and  courteous  to  all,  crcei)ing  in  aid 
out  with  a  sort  of  deprecating  humility. 
Claudo  rarely  noticed  him,  believing  him 
to  be  a  sort  of  dependant  on  tho  bounty 
of  Fabien.  But  yet  ho  felt  an  aversion 
toward  him  that  ho  considered  as  fool- 
ish as  it  was  unjust.  Aimeo  avoided 
him  as  she  would  a  pest ;  if  ho  en- 
tered the  study  of  Fabien  when  sho 
was  there,  sho  would  glanco  at  him 
with  visible  dislike  and  fear,  and  rush 
out  OS  though  sho  wcro  pursued  hy  a 
dragon. 

For  several  days  after  the  Archdeacon 
had  planted  his  first  crop  of  tares  in 
tho  heart  of  Celeste,  sho  remained  shut 
up  in  her  own  chateau,  refusing  to  see 
or  write  to  cither  Claude  or  Aimcjo. 
The  young  Count  was  desperate;  he 
despatched  note  after  note,  but  received 
no  reply ;  he  assailed  Fanchetto  with 
entreaties  and  threats,  but  sho  was 
invulnerable,  and  the  only  inform.ation 
he  received  from  her  was  that  her  mis- 
tress was  suffering  from  a  nervous  at- 
tack and  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed. 
Claude  was  miserable ;  he  half  suspected 
that  some  influence  of  the  Archdeacon 
was  at  work  against  him,  yet  he  could 
discover  nothing.  In  the  first  flush  of 
his  joy  he  had  often  repeated  tohimself, 


■miteAr'nffWriiiii 


jiaMMwii'iiKii. 


'rfhtifinj^iiCtliiiJtfjiiliiftmiiMoari 


S^ 


.10 


A  cuowN  rnoM  Till-;  spkaii. 


"  How  liiipiiy  one  in  when  oiio  lovoH ! " 
Niiw  ill  till-  ^\rni  imitiictit  of  hoitow  iuhI 
(liHii|)|M)intiii)<iit  In-  WMM  ciiiiNhiiiiuMl  tn 
Hiiy,  "  ll'iw  iiiiMfriilili)  one  Ih  wIh-ii  one 
lovi'M  !  ' 

Aiim''o  Hocn'Hy  rojoicpd  tlmt  rt'IcHti- 
l;('[it  out  <>r  liiT  wiiy,  liUtcly  hIk-  liml 
HiiNpt'ctfd  tliiit  Clanilit  wim  (lr('|ily  in 
lovo  with  licr  frii'iid,  and  tlmt  Hninc 
iiiiHiindi'i'stiindinu  Imd  occurred  lictwccn 
tlictii  M'liicli  hIic  liclii'vcd  Mdiild  Olid  in 
II  filial  rii|itiiio  if  hIk'  could  n';raiii  licr 
foriiKT  inllucni'u  over  liini,  Slio  was 
xcllisli,  if  not  unHcrnpiiloiiH,  and  hIiu  did 
not  care  who  Hiitrcrcd,  if  nhc!  was  happy. 

One  inorning  while  CeieHte  remained 
II  volnntiiry  prinoiier  in  her  ehuteau 
anion;;  the  elms,  Aiineu  eainu  u]>  the 
broad  Hteps  and  tlll•oll)^dl  the  cool  breezy 
corridors  of  Clerniont,  siiiKin^  in  ft  dear 
voieo  the  koii^  of  the  //innnfi/ff  ;  the 
Archdeacon  met  her,  and  telling  her  he 
had  something  to  Bay  to  her,  took  her 
hand  and  led  hor  to  liia  study.  When 
there  ho  eloHcd  the  door,  and  piiHlied  a 
chair  toward  her.  She  did  not  wit  down, 
hut  leaned  on  it  with  folded  iirnm,  while 
sho  regarded  with  contenijit  the  Vcnim 
changed  to  ft  .Magdalen ;  it  alwiivK 
Kcemed  to  irritate  her,  with  itn  Hinile  of 
Hill  niid  Beniblance  of  piety,  (iirl  though 
she  WftH,  «ho  underHtood  the  nature  of 
tho  deception  nnd  Hcorned  it. 

"  l.iook  at  me,  Ainu'e,  and  not  at  the 
Magdalen,"  Haid  Fabien  severely,  after 
a  nioinent'H  panse. 

"  Why  should  I  not  look  at  the  pic- 
ture and  linten  to  you  at  the  same 
timcl"  she  replied,  inij)ertinently.  "In 
that  way  I  can  take  a  double  lesson, 
ono  in  (iecoptioii,  tho  other  in  religion, 
becftuso  it  is  to  lecture  nio  that  you 
have  brought  me  here,  to  scold  mc  for 
not  having  been  to  communion  this 
morning.      Is  it  not  I" 

"  It  is,"  answered  tho  Archdeacon. 
"  You  have  been  very  remiss  lately  in 
your  religious  duties." 

"  I  fear  I  have,  moii  phe,"  she  said, 
sinking  on  her  knees,  and  bending  her 
head  over  her  clasped  hands  with  mock- 
ing gravity;  "but  I  will  confess  all 
now,  and  you  shall  give  me  absolution." 

Fabien  did  not  speak,  but  regarded 
earnestly  the  lovely  kneeling  figure  be- 
fore him,  and  while  ho  looked  at  her  Iiis 
face   seemed    a  mirror   in   which   was 


reflected  many  emotions.  Admiration, 
love,  pity,  piiHMion,  tciiderneKf,  und 
dcKpiiir,  all  swept  over  him,  until  hii 
could  scarce  rcMist  tlu<  desire  to  cliiHp 
her  to  his  heart  and  |Hiur  out  hih  soul 
ill  fren/ied  prott'Mtatioim.  "  .My  (io<l," 
ho  thought,  "  I  ought  to  drive  her  from 
my  presence  and  never  look  iijion  her 
again  ;  she  crushes  my  will  as  thougli  it 
were  a  bubble,  sho  drives  reason  iiiid 
ambition  from  my  brain.  No  matter 
how  I  struggle  against  her  power,  sho 
teaches  me  that  the  h<  ;(rt  of  a  priest 
is  the  heart  of  a  nmii,  a:id  its  cries  will 
not  always  be  stifled," 

Only  an  instant  thes''  thoughts  filled 
his  mind  ;  then  ho  swejit  them  away 
with  a  supreme  effort,  and  said  calmly, 
"  I  await  your  confession,  my  child." 

Aim6e  remained  silent. 

"  Mast  thou  broken  any  of  the  Com- 
mandments since  thy  last  confession  f  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  not  without  emo- 
tion. 

"  Which  ? " 

"  The  first  ;  I  h.ivo  loved  another  bet- 
tor than  <!od." 

"  Oh  !  "  sighed  tho  Archdeacon,  like 
ono  racked  with  ])ain  ;  "  that  is  indeed 
a  sin,  but  who  is  tho  object  of  thv  idol- 
atry 1 " 

Her  face  and  neck  flushed  crimson, 
but  sho  raised  l.er  eyes  and  replied  firm- 
ly, "  Claude." 

"  Poor  child,  I  pity  thcc  !  but  thou 
art  young,  aiul  it  is  not  difficult  at  thy 
ago  to  kill  tins  affection,  which  — " 

"To  kill,"  sho  interrupted.  "Why 
should  it  bo  killed  1  It  is  not  a  sin  to 
love,  if  wc  <lo  not  forget  Cod," 

"It  is  a  sin  to  love,  if  thy  love  is  un- 
lawful." 

"  I  never  heard  that  lovo  was  unlaw- 
ful between  those  who  are  free  to  love." 

"  Claude  is  not  free,  ho  is  the  promised 
husband  of  Madcmoisello  Monthelon." 

Aimec  forgot  her  confession,  forgot 
sho  was  on  her  knees  before  an  arch- 
deacon, forgot  that  she  was  outraging 
tho  privileges  of  the  Church,  and  spring- 
ing up,  with  clenched  hands,  dilated 
pupils,  and  anger  stamped  on  every 
line  of  her  face,  she  cried,  "  That  is  a 
falsehood  ;  how  dare  you  tell  me  a  thing 
so  false  1  (^'laude  never  kept  any  secret 
from  me.  If  he  was  promised  to  Celeste, 
he  would  have  told  me." 


Tmsm^sm^smm!^ 


"  "1 

A   CUOWN    I'UoM   TIIK  SPKAFJ. 

"          1 

liiiiratidti, 

WfHf,       Utill 

until    ill) 

'    to    I'lllMp 
t     hih   Hdlll 

My   (!<.(J," 

lur  fniin 

iifi'iii  her 

thoii^'h  it 

I'lkHOII     Mild 

No  iimtfcr 
Mtrtcr,  mIio 
II  |)ricNt 
H  criuM  will 


\nhtH  filled 
ii'iii    ftwiiy 

ii<l  calmly, 
cliild." 

r  the  Com- 
ifi'SHJon  1 " 
thout  cino- 


iiotherbct- 

cacon,  liko 
it  iH  iiulcfd 
)f  thy  idol- 

(1  crimson, 
L'plicd  firm- 

!  but  thou 
cult  at  thy 
L'h— " 
d.     "  Why 
lot  a  sin  tu 

love  is  un- 

was  unhiw- 
;o  to  love." 
e  proiriiscd 
iithelon." 
ion,    forgot 
0  nn  arch- 
outraging 
md  spring- 
is,   dilated 
on   every 
That  is  II 
nic  a  thing 
any  secret 
to  Celeste, 


"Cfiliii  yoiMKclf,  tii'i  rhi'rir,"  f\\u\  I'li- 
liien  L'ctitly,  iilinoHt  iilVuid  of  the  tciii|it">f 
hi'  liiid  riUHrMl, -- ••  niliii  yiiiiincif  aii'l 
liitliM  iVo  MIC.  I  will  cxplaiii  all  uiiil 
coiiviMCM*  you  tliat  what  I  Hiiy  i^  true." 

S!,,  !  Hiked  at  him  a  iixiini'iit,  her 
lii'i'w  ciiiitrui'ti'd,  lii-r  even  tliiHl.iii'.,',  and 
hiT  tcitli  piVHScd  Surd  iiifn  her  iiihIit- 
lift,  'riu'ii  a  Hmil«-  of  Hcorii  and  <loul)t 
flidu  1  over  her  faro,  and  nIio  said 
\\\\U  giiH|i,  "  1  d'lii't  know  that  I 
can  luiicvo  you,  for  you  uro  not  Hincciv. 
All  thcHo  things"  with  a  HWtcp  of  lur 
hand  toward  the  Magdalen,  the  Flan- 
dors  leather,  and  the  triumphs  of  Jupi- 
ter, "  conviuco  mo  that  you  are  not 
good  anil  true  ;  these  are  not  the  sacred 
B»ili)eits  that  shonld  Hurroimd  a  priest. 
A  slii'|ilieril  of  souls  shixild  look  at  n(jnu 
of  tlu'se  things." 

Kaliien  winced,  hut  lie  smiled  indul- 
gently, treating  her  like  iv  child,  as  he 
always  did.  "  Vour  simjilicity  excuses 
your    rudeness,   my  daught(;r.     Hut    if 

{•oil  doulit  mo, "  ho  added  a  little  stcrn- 
y,  "le:ive  my  room  and  conic  to  mo  no 
more.  It  is  for  your  own  good  that  1 
desire  to  open  your  eyes,  and  let  you 
see  things  as  they  are  ;  hut  if  you  prefer 
not  to  see,  why  then  remain  hiind." 

"  I  wish  to  see.  I  will  see.  I  will 
know  all,"  she  returned  liorccly.  "  F  will 
lic:ir  your  explanation,  hut  I  will  not 
helieve  Claude  intends  to  marry  (V-- 
le.sto  until  I  hear  it  from  his  own  lips." 

She  folded  her  arms,  straightened 
herself  to  a  grim  rigidity,  fi.xed  her 
eyes  on  the  armor  with  the  ugly  skull, 
and  listened  while  the  Archdeacon  told 
her  of  his  interview  with  Claude  some 
time  before. 

When  ho  had  finished,  the  girl's  face 
was  very  pale  and  resolute,  the  marked 
eyebrow.s  had  a  decidedly  w  icked  ciu've, 
and  the  eyes  a  subtle  intensity,  liko  a 
young  tiger  ready  to  spring  upon  its 
prey. 

"  He  loves  her  then,  if  I  am  to  be- 
lieve this ;  but  he  will  never  marry  her, 
I  will  kill  them  Iwth  first,"  she  cried, 
with  insane  rage. 

"  For  God's  sake  hush,  my  child," 
implored  the  Archdeaxion,  "  There  are 
other  means  less  tragic  by  which  this 
marriage  may  be  prevented.  Listen  to 
me,  ami  I  will  show  you  how  easily  it 
may  bo  managed.    Celeste  even  now,  at 


the  birth  of  her  love,  is  NUKpieioim  ami 
jeiijniis  of  yon.  It  is  lieeatise  hlie  limilits 
her  lover  that  she  hIiiUs  herself  n|i  at 
Moiitheloii,  under  the  preleiiee  of  ill- 
iiesM."  Aimee's  eycH  Hpaikled  with  viii- 
iliclive  joy.  "  .\nd  it  is  not  altiit;etli(ir  a 
|iretenee.  She  is  ill,  but  it  is  the  heart, 
tiio  mind,  and  no  phyHieian  i  an  euro 
that  malady,  liiit  the  Hlightest  look, 
tone,  hint,  will  augment  it,  She  is 
physieally  weak,  she  has  not  a  strong 
( haraeter,  there  is  no  lieroiNin  in  her 
nature,  she  will'sink  under  the  slight- 
est attack  without  eomliating  it,  shu  is 
too  credulous  and  yielding  to  resist  or 
dispute,  and  so  can  easily  bo  disposed 
of.  A  convent  is  tho  placu  for  such 
a  feeble  spirit,  as  hers.  .My  iiifluenco 
is  great,  she  is  pious  and  devout.  I 
will  show  her  how  fair  and  peaceful  ii 
refuge  she  will  find  in  the  Church,  and 
her  liruised  heart  will  aid  ine  in  an 
oliject  that  is,  after  all,  right.  Wo 
should  hem  tit  tho  Church  at  any  cost, 
at  any  suritieo.  And  the  end  always 
justities  the  nu'ans." 

"  Disinterested  reasoning,"  cried  tho 
girl  scornfully,  "but  of  wliiit  iidvantago 
will  your  success  be  to  me  1  You  will 
separate  them,  and  ho  will  love  her  tho 
more.  It  is  not  alone  his  wealth  and 
title  I  want,  it  is  his  love." 

"  Vour  eharniH  will  win  that  in  time," 
said  the  Archdeacon  with  conviction. 

"  Never  ;  if  with  truth  and  innocence 
I  have  failed,  1  cannot  succeed  when 
my  heart  is  tarnished  with  falsehood 
and  deceit,  lie  has  a  tnoro  noble  soul 
than  yours,  anil  ho  would  detect  tho 
imposition.  No,  no,  I  will  not  bo  your 
accomplice,  for  it  would  be  useless.  If 
I  was  sure  a  crime  woidd  win  his  love, 
I  would  ccanmit  it,  but  my  heart  tells 
mo  it  would  bo  in  vain.  It  would 
separate  me  from  him  forever.  Do 
what  you  will,  but  I  cannot  aid  you. 
I  will  hear  tho  truth  from  his  lips,  and 
—  and  my  resolve  is  talten.  I  will  not 
come  between  him  and  his  desires.  I 
love  him  enough  to  suffer  for  him,  to 
die  for  him,  and  too  much  to  see  his 
happiness  with  hor  I  hate.  Yes,  I  hate 
her,  with  her  deceitful  white  face  and 
innocent  ways.  She  knew  1  loved  him, 
that  I  had  always  loved  him,  and  she 
has  come  between  us  and  separated  us. 
I  bate  hor ! "  she  hissed  veuomously,  — 


•  JUJ  Ij-jHI-'l  ''lltJWI! 


•.«MMGf«lMi*«HMMaM*Mi 


32 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


"I  hato  her.  Make  her  suffer  if  you 
cau,  but  spare  him.  liomcniber  what  1 
say.  If  you  injure  a  hair  of  his  licad, 
my  vcuj^cancc  will  bo  terrible." 

Since  the  day  the  child  betrayed  her 
father  in  tiio  tower  of  Notre  Dame, 
Fabien  had  known  that  there  was  some- 
thing fierce,  implacable,  stubborn,  and 
defiant  in  lu;r  nature,  but  he  had  never 
understood  the  full  strength  of  it  until 
now.  He  felt  a  shiver  pass  over  him 
as  she  looked  at  him  ^with  eyes  that 
seemed  to  omit  sparks  of  baleful  light ; 
and  wlicu  she  turned  to  leave  the  room 
he  had  no  power  to  detain  her,  although 
there  were  a  thousand  things  he  wished 
to  say.  She  had  reached  the  door,  when 
suddenly  the  thought  of  what  he  had 
done  for  her  since  the  hour  when  she 
was  cast  a  waif  on  his  mercy,  his  indul- 
gence, his  love,  his  patience,  his  care, 
all  overpowered  her  and  filled  her  heart 
with  remorse.  She  glanced  at  him.  His 
head  was  bowed ;  seemingly  he  was 
crushed  beneath  her  scorn,  her  re- 
proaches, her  threats.  In  a  moment  she 
was  on  her  knees  before  him,  covering 
his  hands  with  tears  and  kisses,  implor- 
ing him  to  have  pity  on  her,  to  foi-give 
her,  and  to  love  her  always. 

The  Archdeacon  folded  her  to  his 
heart.  In  that  supreme  moment  ho  for- 
got he  was  a  priest,  and  therefore  not  a 
feeble  man.  All  the  love  and  passion 
of  his  soul  overflowed  and  drowned  his 
reason.  He  was  only  conscious  of  one 
thing,  —  this  girl  whom  he  adored  with 
all  the  intensity  of  his  nature,  and  who 
until  then  had  treated  him  with  cold- 
ness and  indifference,  had  thrown  her- 
self voluntarily  at  his  feet  and  covered 
his  hands  with  her  tears  and  kisses. 
And  while  he  held  her  to  his  heart,  this 
stern  cold  priest,  this  immaculate  shep- 
herd of  souls,  this  man  whom  the  world 
believed  dead  to  the  passions  of  life, 
experienced  for  a  moment 

"  That  part  of  Paradise  which  man 
Without  the  portal  knows, 
Wliich  hath  been  since  the  world  began, 
And  shall  be  to  its  close." 

An  instant  only,  and  then  Aimee  tore 
herself  from  his  embrace,  and  without 
a  glance  or  word  fled  from  the  room; 
and  as  she  went  she  dashed  from  her 
face  tears  that  had  fi\llen  from  eyes 
which  had  seldom  wept  before. 


TART   NINTH. 

THE    ALLEY    OP   SIOIIS. 

On  the  left  of  tho  grand  avenue  that 
crossed  the  park  of  Clermont  was  a 
winding  walk,  shaded  by  pines  and  wil- 
lows, that  terminated,  more  than  a  mile 
from  tho  chateau,  in  an  abnipt  and  dan- 
gerous precipice  which  rose  above  the 
Seine  to  the  height  of  more  than  two 
hundred  feet,  forming  a  part  of  tlio 
base  of  Mont  St.  Catherine.  At  a  lit- 
tle distance  from  the  extreme  edge  of 
this  precipice  the  trees  were  cut  away, 
leaving  an  open  space  from  which  '.nio 
could  see  the  city  of  Houen  and  the 
serpentine  winding  of  the  river  far  be- 
low him.  Tho  shaded  Avalk  leading  to 
this  cliff  had  always  been  known  as  the 
Allee  des  Soupirs.  Perhaps  its  umbra- 
geous gloom  and  the  moaning  of  the 
wind,  that  seemed  to  sigh  mysteriously 
among  the  mournful  pines  when  it  was 
heard  nowhere  else,  suggested  the  name. 
It  was  not  a  retreat  a  happy  person 
would  have  chosen.  Only  one  steeped 
in  melancholy  would  have  sought  it  as 
a  congenial  spot  to  nurse  his  morbid 
fancies.  Nevertheless  it  was  a  favorite 
resort  of  the  Archdeacon  when  he  wished 
to  be  quite  alone  to  brood  over  his  cher- 
ished schemes,  and  the  stone  seat  facing 
the  Seine  scarcely  ever  had  any  o.ther 
occupant. 

But  on  this  day,  when  Fabien,  in  the 
privacy  of  his  study,  plotted  with  Aimee, 
Claude  sat  there  with  a  book  in  his 
hand,  out  of  which  he  read  from  time 
to  time  passages  that  seemed  to  interest 
him.  He  had  wandered  down  the  Alley 
of  Sighs  miserably  dejected,  his  heart 
filled  with  doubt,  sorrow,  and  disap- 
pointment at  the  unaccoimtable  check 
to  his  ardent  love.  He  had  written 
note  after  note  filled  with  the  most  ten- 
der expressions  of  affection.  The  notes 
had  been  retained,  but  only  a  cold,  ver- 
bal message  had  come  that  Mademoiselle 
Monthelon  was  too  ill  to  reply  to  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte.  Not  knowing  what 
course  to  take,  he  was  in  tortures  of  un- 
certainty. Sometimes  indignant,  and 
suspecting  some  plot  of  the  Archdeacon 
and  Fanchette,  he  determined  to  storm 
the  citadel  and  force  a  passage  into  tho 
presence  of  his  beloved  Then  ho 
thought  how  uawise  and  ridiculous  such 


mmmr 


IS. 

avenue  that 
loiit  was  a 
icH  and  wil- 
than  u  niilo 
ipt  and  diin- 
!  above  the 
e  than  two 
)art  of  tlio 
At  a  lit- 
ne  edge  of 
5  cut  away, 

wliich  «ne 
en  and  the 
iver  far  be- 

Icading  to 
lown  as  the 
i  its  umbra- 
ling  of  the 
ijsteriously 
ivhen  it  was 
d  the  name, 
[ipy  person 
ane  steeped 
ought  it  as 
his  morbid 
IS  a  favorite 
n  lie  wished 
icr  liis  cher- 
;  seat  facing 
[  any  other 

bien,  in  the 
with  Aimec, 
jook  in  his 
I  from  time 
\  to  interest 
ru  the  Alley 
I,  his  heart 
and  disap- 
tablc  check 
lad  written 
le  most  ten- 

The  notes 
a  cold,  ver- 
ademoiselle 
ply  to  Mon- 
3 wing  what 
tures  of  un- 
gnant,  and 
Archdeacon 
ed  to  storm 
ige  into  the 

Then  he 
iculous  such 


CROWN  PROM  THE  SPEAR. 


8d 


a  step  would  be,  if  she  were  really  ill, 
too  ill  to  see  him.  Tormented  with 
these  conflicting  emotions,  he  found 
very  little  distraction  in  the  scene  be- 
fore him,  and  less  consolation  in  the 
pages  of  the  book  which  he  turned  list- 
lessly over.  It  was  the  Pensees  de 
Blaise  Pascal,  and  this  passage  on  the 
possibilities  of  a  future  life  attracted 
his  attention :  "  Vous  me  direz  ici  que 
je  confonds  mal  h,  propos  le  bonheur 
actuel  dont  je  jouis  avec  le  parfait 
bonheur ;  qu'il  y  a  cependant  grande 
difference  de  I'un  il  I'autre."  He  pon- 
dered over  the  words,  "  Permanent 
duration  is  the  marked  characteristic 
of  true  happiness ;  present  happiness 
is  not  only  short-lived,  but  it  often  pro- 
duces a  succession  of  sorrows  the  most 
redoubtable."  Again  he  read  :  "  Les 
stoiques  disent :  Rentrez  au-dedans  de 
vous-mfimes.  C'est  li  o4  vous  trouve- 
rez  votre  repos ;  et  cela  n'est  pas  vrai. 
Les  autres  disent :  Sortez  dehors,  et 
cherchez  le  bonheur  en  vous  divertis- 
sant ;  et  cela  n'est  pas  vrai.  Les  mala- 
dies viennent ;  le  bonheur  n'est  ni  dans 
nous,  ni  hors  de  nous,  il  est  en  Dieu  et  en 
nous."  These  sentiments  impressed  him 
with  their  truth,  because  he  had  already 
found  how  uncertain  is  earthly  happi- 
ness, and  how  useless  it  is  to  strive  to 
find  it  within  ourselves  or  without,  in 
the  midst  of  the  diversions  of  life.  It 
must  be  the  gift  of  God,  or  otherwise  it 
is  but  a  momentary  satisfaction. 

Claude  had  studied  and  thought 
much,  but  in  a  desultory  way,  —  the  re- 
sult of  leisure  and  general  reading; 
therefore  ho  had  not  reached  the  great 
fundamental  princip^as  of  life,  which 
perhaps,  after  all,  we  oftener  learn  from 
sorrow  and  the  experience  that  we  gain 
from  contact  with  the  great  heart  of 
humanity,  that  heart  which  must  throb 
and  burn  with  ours  before  we  can  enter 
into  rapport  with  it.  He  had  passed 
his  life,  so  far,  in  dreamy  inaction,  doing 
nothing,  because  there  was  no  necessity 
to  impel  him.  Yet  there  were  times 
when  he  questioned  himself  sharply,  as 
to  what  right  he  had,  simply  because 
God  had  given  him  wealth,  to  be  an 
idler.  While  others  of  his  fellow-men 
endured  the  heat  of  the  day,  toiling 
like  patient  beasts  of  burden  for  the 
bare  necessities  of  life,  he  folded  his 
3 


hands  in  luxurious  ease,  aoing  nothing 
for  himself  or  humanity.  His  soul  was 
full  of  generous  impulses.  He  had 
given  freely  of  his  wealth  to  the  poor, 
to  the  Church,  to  charitable  institutions, 
through  the  medium  of  the  Archdeacon, 
and  had  never  refused  the  heavy  de- 
mands he  constantly  made  upon  his 
charity.  One  knowing  how  freely  ho 
dispensed  his  bounties  woiild  have  said 
that  he  believed,  to  the  full  extent,  in 
the  Scriptural  adage,  that  it  is  more 
blessed  to  give  than  to  receive.  There 
was  something  of  prodigality  in  the 
freedom  with  which  he  showered  bone- 
fits  on  all,  still  there  was  very  little 
satisfaction  in  it.  He  did  not  delude 
himself  with  sophistry ;  he  knew  he 
made  no  sacrifice  of  self,  therefore  there 
could  be  no  merit  in  it.  At  times,  be- 
fore he  was  conscious  of  his  great  love 
for  Celeste,  ambitious  desires  had  stirred 
the  placid  stream  of  his  life,  but  only 
at  short  intervals ;  the  natural  indolence 
of  his  nature  usually  asserted  itself, 
and  he  would  decide  that,  after  all,  a  life 
of  political  or  literary  activity  was  but 
a  conflict  in  which  one  was  almost  al- 
ways ingloriously  defeated.  When  he 
loved  Celeste  and  knew  that  love  re- 
turned, he  desired  nothing  more.  A 
calm,  domestic  life  with  her  seemed  to 
him  the  supreme  good,  the  ultimate 
blessing,  that  could  be  added  to  his 
already  favored  existence.  That  cer- 
tainty had  been  short-lived.  The  Arch- 
deacon had  presented  obstacles  that 
annoyed  him  at  first,  and  that  now 
threatened  him  with  the  annihilation  of 
all  his  hopes.  Searching  his  brain  for 
some  assistance  in  his  trouble,  he  sud- 
denly thought  of  Aim6e,  and  decided  he 
would  make  her  his  mediator,  as  she 
had  often  been  between  him  and  the 
Archdeacon,  and  his  intercessor  with 
Celeste.  This  thought  encouraged  and 
comforted  him,  and  he  arose  with  a 
lighter  heart  to  return  to  the  chateau. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  aware 
how  long  he  had  sat  there  musing  over 
his  book  and  his  sorrows.  The  after- 
noon was  gone,  and  night  was  rapidly 
obliterating  the  golden  footsteps  of  the 
sun.  He  lingered  to  look  down  on 
Rouen.  The  sombre  city  was  growing 
solemn  in  the  twilight.  The  majestic 
towers  of  Notre  Damo  and  St.  Ouen 


mitiiiiirif'itit^mmiiilA  r^ifi 


irifl^JNjiwiwrr  iriiili]ffliii>>ii*w 


HimiHMtf 


34 


CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


made  a  silhouette  against  the  gray  sky. 
A  light  mist  rose  up  ghost-like  from  the 
river,  the  wind  swept  in  little  gusty 
moans  down  the  Alley  of  Sighs.  His 
afternoon  revery  and  the  sadness  of  the 
scene  filled  his  heart  with  a  gentle  mel- 
ancholy that  perhaps  was  augmented 
by  the  coming  events  that  threw  their 
shadows  before.  With  a  heavy  sigh  he 
turned  to  leave  the  spot,  and  came  face 
to  face  with  Aira^e.  A  spectre  could 
not  have  startled  him  more,  she  was  so 
pale,  and  her  eyes  met  his  with  such  a 
strange  expression  that  he  shivered. 
Then  her  dress  of  black,  which  was  un- 
usual, relieved  only  by  a  scarlet  scarf 
woimd  around  her  throat,  made  a  most 
disagreeable  impression.  She  seemed 
to  be  transformed  into  something  differ- 
ent from  the  Aixaie  he  had  parted  with 
a  few  hours  before;  the  white-robed, 
laughing  girl  of  the  morning  appeared 
iu^the  twilight  like  a  ghost  clothed  in 
diabolical  colors. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  here  1 " 
was  Claude's  first  exclamation,  when 
he  had  recovered  a  little  from  his  sur- 
prise. 

"  I  searched  everywhere  for  you,  until 
one  of  the  gardeners  told  me  he  saw  you 
enter  the  Alley  of  Sighs,  and  as  I  wished 
to'talk  with  you  free  from  interruption 
I  followed  you  here." 

She  spoke  calmly,  but  Claude  discov- 
<ered  an  increasing  agitation,  that  was 
apparent  in  the  hectic  color  of  her 
cheek  and  her  restless  eyes. 

"You  are  the  one  of  all  others  I 
most  wished  to  see  at  this  moment, 
Aim^e.  I,  too,  have  something  to  say 
to  you ;  you  can  do  me  a  gi'eat  service, 
if  you  will,"  he  said,  earnestly,  laying 
both  hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  look- 
ing into  her  half-averted  face. 

"  Indeed  !  and  what  is  the  service  1" 
she  inquired,  coldly. 

Claude  told  her  briefly  of  his  love  for 
Celeste,  and  his  suffering  at  being  sep- 
arated from  her,  and  was  going  on  to 
implore  her  intercession,  when  the  girl 
interrupted  him  with  a  cry  of  anguish 
that  startled  him.  "  Then  you  indeed 
love  her  so  much  1 " 

"Better  than  my  life,"  he  replied, 
firmly. 

Her  hands  fell,  and  she  stood  motion- 
less, her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  while 


from  time  to  time  she  sobbed,  "  Mon 
Dieu  /  Mon  Dieu  !  " 

Claude  looked  at  her  stupidly,  not 
understanding;  then  suddenly  the 
thought  flashed  upon  him  that  perhaps 
her  emotion  was  caused  by  some  mis- 
fortune that  had  befallen  Celeste,  and 
he  cried  in  a  voice  of  entreaty,  "Tell 
me,  Aimde,  is  C<ileste  seriously  ill  1  has 
anything  happened  to  her  1  Tell  me,  for 
I  am  dying  of  anxiety." 

These  passionate  words  startled  her 
from  her  rigidity,  and  fixing  her  eyes 
fiercely  on  him  she  replied,  "  Do  not 
speak  to  me  of  Celeste.  I  hate  her  so 
that  I  would  gladly  see  her  dead  before 
me.  She  is  well ;  she  is  happy.  It  is 
I  who  am  suffering,  who  am  dying. 
She  triumphs  over  me,  and  you  have 
no  pity  for  me.  0  Claude,  how  I  have 
loved  you  !  I  have  prayed  for  you  as  we 
only  pray  for  those  who  are  a  part  of 
ourselves.  I  have  thought  of  you  as 
no  other  ever  will.  You  have  been  my 
idol,  my  god,  my  religion,  ever  since 
the  day  I  first  saw  you.  I  would  have 
suffered  the  pain  and  sorrow  that  is 
coming  upon  you  gladly,  and  counted 
myself  more  than  blessed  to  share  any 
fate  with  you.  I  would  have  lived  for 
you,  I  would  have  died  for  you,  if  you 
had  but  loved  me  instead  of  that  white- 
faced,  passionless  creature,  that  hypo- 
critical —  " 

"  Hush  ! "  cried  Claude,  sternly ;  "  not 
a  word  against  Celeste,  she  is  an  angel." 

No  woman  can  endure  to  hear  her 
rival  praised,  and  to  such  a  nature  as 
Aim^e's  it  was  fuel  to  fire ;  it  was  the 
spark  that  exploded  the  pent-up  pas- 
sions of  her  heart ;  and  she  broke  out 
into  such  frenzied  invectives  that 
Claude  was  dumb  with  amazement. 
She  went  on  insanely,  heaping  injustice 
upon  injixstice,  insult  upon  insult. 

"  I  hate  her ;  I  despise  her ;  she  is  a 
cowardly,  deceitful  intruder,  who  has 
come  between  us,  and  changed  your 
heart  by  her  wiles.  You  loved  me 
once,  you  thought  me  an  angel;  you 
praised  my  beauty;  you  sought  my 
society  and  my  sympathy ;  you  made 
me  love  you  by  a  thousand  tendernesses 
and  professions;  and  now  you  havo 
grown  weary  of  me,  and  you  fling  mo 
aside  and  seek  a  new  love." 

Claude  regarded  her  with  deep  com- 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


35 


)bed,  "  Mon 

tupidly,  not 
Idenly  tho 
hat  perhaps 
f  somo  inis- 
[!^leste,  and 
•eaty,  "Tell 
isly  ill  1  has 
Tell  me,  for 

startled  her 
ng  her  eyes 
I,  "Do  not 
hate  her  so 

dead  before 
appy.     It  is 

am  dying, 
d  you  have 

how  I  have 
or  you  as  we 
e  a  part  of 
b  of  you  as 
ive  been  my 
,   ever  since 

would  have 
row  that  is 
ind  counted 
0  share  any 
vo  lived  for 

you,  if  you 
F  that  white- 

that  hypo- 

temly ; "  not 
is  an  angel." 
to  hear  her 
a  nature  as 
;  it  was  the 
pent-up  pas- 
le  broke  out 
ictivea  that 
amazement, 
ting  injustice 
insult. 

ler ;  she  is  a 
er,  who  has 
langed  your 
L  loved  me 
angel ;  you 
sought  my 
;  you  made 
tendernesses 
w  you  havo 
^ou  fling  me 

h  deep  com- 


miseration ;  so  young,  so  lovely,  yet  so 
entirely  controlled  by  these  passionate 
emotions.  His  eyes  filled  with  tears  as 
he  looked  at  her,  and  he  said,  in  a 
voice  of  extreme  pity  and  gentleness, 
"Aim6e,  how  you  will  suffer  for  hav- 
ing been  so  unjust  toward  Celeste,  to- 
ward me,  who  have  both  loved  you  as  a 
sister.  Havo  I  ever  professed  any  other 
love  for  you  than  the  simple  and  sincere 
love  of  a  brother]  If  you  have  mis- 
taken my  kindnesss,  my  forbearance, 
my  indulgence,  for  other  than  a  frater- 
nal love,  am  I  to  blame  1  Think  of  it 
calmly,  without  passion,  and  you  will 
see  that  I  have  always  treated  you  as  a 
beloved  sister." 

His  gentle  words  pierced  her  heart 
with  a  spasm  of  pain.  She  indeed  re- 
membered his  love,  his  kindness,  his 
generosity  toward  her  who  had  no  claims 
upon  him.  This  thought  calmed  the 
tempest  of  anger  as  nothing  else  could, 
and  her  voice  was  filled  with  contrition, 
as  she  said,  "  It  is  true,  you  have  done 
nothing  that  I  should  reproach  you  for. 
You  are  not  to  blame  that  you  do  not 
love  me  j  it  is  my  own  miserable  heart 
that  has  deceived  me,  for  I  once  was 
sure  of  your  affection ;  now  I  know 
you  have  never  loved  me,  and  all  this 
maddens  me,  and  robs  me  of  hope. 
You  were  my  life,  without  you  I  will 
not  live,  I  cannot  live.  All  is  lost ;  I 
am  resolved,  I  will  not  live  to  know  you 
hate  me." 

Her  voice  was  br'-'ien,  and  her  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears  that  did  not  fall, 
as  she  raised  her  despairing  young  face 
to  Claude.  He  took  her  hands  in  his, 
and  pressing  them  fondly  to  his  lips  he 
said  in  tones  of  touching  tenderness, 
for  his  heart  was  moved  with  pity, 
"  Aim^e,  my  little  sister,  my  playmate 
from  childhood,  my  dearest  thing  on 
earth  beside  Celeste,  you  know  I  love 
you  with  all  a  brother's  heart.  Let  us 
forget  these  bitter  words.  Your  passion 
has  blinded  you ;  you  cannot  see  clearly 
into  your  own  heart ;  you  have  mis- 
taken the  natuA  of  your  love  for  me, 
it  is  but  the  deep  affection  of  a  sister ; 
so  be  to  me  indeed  a  sister;  help  me 
in  my  trouble  with  Celeste,  and  I  will 
love  and  bless  you  always." 

She  looked  into  his  face  with  a  long, 
devouring  gaze,  as  though  she  would 


imprint  every  feature  upon  her  heart 
forever,  and  said  in  a  slow,  solemn  tone, 
"  It  is  impossible,  Claude  ;  I  cannot  help 
to  make  you  happy  with  another,  but  I 
can  retire  from  your  life.  I  can  leave 
you  to  accomplish  your  desires  alone. 
If  I  should  remain  with  you,  I  should  be 
but  a  discordant  element.  My  place  is 
no  longer  here.  Adieu !  Claude,  adieu ! " 
she  cried,  with  passionate  sobs  breaking 
into  the  fixed  calmness  of  her  words. 
"  Adieu  forever.  Let  no  thought  of  me 
intrude  upon  your  hours  of  content. 
Death  is  a  thousand  times  prefer- 
able to  the  sight  of  your  happiness 
with  another.  You  will  see  mo  no 
more ;  my  resolve  is  taken,  I  will  tear 
myself  from  a  life  that  imposes  a  burden 
heavier  than  I  can  bear.  A  silence  shall 
come  between  us,  an  eternal  silence, 
and  you  will  forget  I  have  ever  lived." 
Her  lips  were  white  and  tremulous, 
and  her  voice  clear  and  piercing  with 
the  suffering  that  only  an  excitable  and 
highly  wrought  temperament  experien- 
ces in  moments  of  extreme  mental  dis- 
tress. 

Claude  was  alarmed ;  for  although  ho 
had  often  witnessed  her  tempests,  and 
listened  to  her  exaggerated  threats,  dur- 
ing her  frequent  passionate  outbursts,  he 
had  never  seen  such  traces  of  anguish 
upon  her  face  as  now.  He  attempted 
again  to  take  her  hands,  to  draw  her  near 
him,  to  soothe  her  with  gentle  words, 
but  with  one  look  of  reproach  and 
sorrow  that  he  never  forgot  she  sprang 
from  him  and  darted  through  the  laurels 
into  the  thicket  of  trees  that  grew  close 
to  the  precipitous  bank  of  the  river. 

For  a  moment  Claude  was  stupefied, 
then  with  an  effort  he  recovered  himself 
and  sprang  after  her.  A  crash,  a  cry, 
a  long  piteous  wail.  Was  it  the  shriek 
of  a  soul  in  pain,  or  the  wind  wandering 
down  the  Alley  of  Sighs  1  He  knew  not, 
but  a  sudden  chill  passed  over  him.  All 
was  silent  now ;  he  parted  the  branches 
and  looked  down,  down  into  the  shadowy 
depths  of  the  Seine,  growing  dark  and 
mysterious  iu  the  fast-gathering  twilight. 
A  deadly  pallor  passed  over  his  face,  and 
great  drops  of  sweat  fell  from  his  brow 
while  he  gazed,  for  he  fancied  the  water 
eddied  and  rippled  as  though  lately  dis- 
turbed by  a.fsSling  body,  and  he  could 
have  sworn  that  he  saw  a  gleam  of 


inil)fc7riiit'.Wi*kiBaailMitfiTriTlu>[ii>iWi^Wnr>iiirt'lilrii> 


3G 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


scarlet,  a  white  face,  and  the  tinge  of  a 
liltick  drcHB  under  the  yellow  surface  of 
the  river.  For  years  after  to  see  that 
comlnnation  of  colors  made  him  turn 
sicl{,  so  vividly  did  they  impress  them- 
selves upon  his  brain  iu  that  moment. 
"  My  God  !  "  he  cried,  pressing  his  hand 
to  his  beating  heai't,  "  is  it  possible  she 
iiioiuit  what  she  said  1  Has  she  thrown 
herself  into  the  river  1  And  have  I  been 
tlio  cause  1  Can  it  be  that  my  words 
(li'ove  the  poor  girl  to  sudden  and  dread- 
ful death  ]  0  Heaven  !  what  can  I  do  1 
No  help  can  reach  her  from  this  height, 
and  before  I  can  descend  it  will  be  too 
late."  Again  he  looked  eagerly  down, 
crj-ing,  "  Aim6e  !  Aim6e  ! "  but  the  placid 
water  returned  no  answer.  All  was 
silent  above  and  beneath  him.  A  bird 
hopped  across  the  branches,  a  bat 
whirled  around  his  head ;  nature  made 
no  reply  to  his  despairing  voice.  It 
was  dumb,  because  it  was  unconscious 
of  the  tragedy  that  filled  his  soul  with 
horror.  Bewildered,  hopeless,  almost 
maddened  by  the  succession  of  thoughts 
that  rushed  through  his  burning  brain, 
ho  turned  to  seek  help,  although  he  felt 
it  useless,  and  saw  before  him  the  gaunt 
figure,  the  haggard  face,  of  Pire  Benoit. 

Before  Claude  was  well  aware  of  the 
priest's  presence,  he  felt  his  claw-like 
hand  clutching  his  throat,  and  his  voice 
like  the  hiss  of  a  serpent,  as  he  said, 
close  to  his  ear,  "  I  know  all.  You  are 
a  murderer !  You  have  driven  the  poor 
girl  to  death  to  hide  your  crime  from 
the  world.  You  plunged  her  down  the 
precipice  into  the  river.  I  heard  her 
call  for  help." 

"  My  God  ! "  cried  Claude,  wrenching 
himself  from  the  priest's  grasp.  "  Are 
you  mad,  that  you  utter  such  a  lie  1  I 
have  not  harmed  the  poor  girl.  I  loved 
her  as  a  sister,  how  then  could  I  injure 
one  hair  of  her  head  1  If  she  has  come 
to  harm,  it  was  her  own  uncontrolled 
passion  that  led  to  such  a  fearful  result. 
I  am  innocent.  God  above  knows  I  am 
innocent.  Do  not  stand  here  accusing 
me.  Let  us  try  to  reach  the  river ;  if 
she  has  fallen  down  the  precipice,  we 
at  least  may  find  her  body." 

The  priest  turned  mechanically  and 
followed  Claude,  who  with  livid  face 
and  bloodshot  eyes  rushed  down  the 
naiTOW  winding  path. 


"  She  may  have  descended  this  way," 
he  cried,  after  a  few  moments,  turning 
suddenly  upon  the  priest,  who  was  fol- 
lowing him  desperately,  his  black  robe 
torn  by  the  thorns  and  jagged  rocks.  His  • 
hands  were  clenched  and  his  lips  com- 
pressed, while  his  eyes  were  fixed  mena- 
cingly on  the  sorrow-stricken  young  man 
before  him. 

When  Claude  turned  his  anxious  face 
upon  him,  the  priest's  eyi  m  fell,  and  he 
crossed  himself,  saying  only,  "  Alon 
Dieu  !     Mom  Dieu  !  " 

"  Do  you  not  think,  that,  after  all,  she 
may  have  rushed  down  this  path,  and 
gone  on  by  the  beach-road  to  St.  Oucn  1 
See,  here  are  certainly  marks  of  a  wo- 
man's shoe  in  the  sand." 

"  A  woman's  shoe,"  repeated  the 
priest  bitterly  and  laconically,  "  I  see 
only  the  track  of  a  goat's  hoof." 

Claude  said  no  more,  but  sighed  heav- 
ily as  he  glanced  down  on  the  river  a 
few  paces  ^om  him.  In  a  moment  they 
stood  on  the  shore  side  by  side,  Claude 
trembling  visibly,  for  he  expected  to  sco 
a  white,  reproachful  face  looking  at  him 
from  the  depths  of  the  shadowy  river 
into  which  he  gazed  long  and  intently  ; 
but  he  saw  nothing  save  the  shadow  of 
the  overhanging  cliff,  and  one  trembling 
star  reflected  fV-om  the  azure  heavens. 
Then  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  face  of 
the  precipice  with  its  weird,  waving 
branches,  and  cried  out  with  sharp  an- 
guish, as  we  sometimes  cry  to  the  dead, 
even  when  we  know  they  cannot  hear 
us,  "  Aim4e,  Aim^e." 

There  was  no  reply,  only  the  long- 
continued  melancholy  echo,  "Aim6e, 
Aim^e  1 " 


PART  TENTH. 

THIS   IS  ALIi  WE   HAVE   FOUND. 

Both  men  stood  looking  silently  each 
into  the  face  of  the  other,  and  the  silence 
was  not  broken  until  Claude  gasped, 
hopelessly,  "  Then  we  can  do  nothing  t " 

"  Yes ;  we  can  try  to  find  the  body," 
said  the  priest,  in  a  voice  of  suppressed 
emotion  ;  "  let  us  return  to  the  ch&teau 
and  send  some  one  for  boatmen  to  drag 
the  river  before  the  tide  takes  it  beyond 
their  reach." 


Elt£. 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


87 


ed  this  way," 
unts,  turning 
who  wns  fol- 
a  black  robe 
id  rocks.  His- 
bis  lips  coni- 
3  fixed  mcna- 
Q  young  man 

anxious  face 
;  fell,  and  ho 
only,    "  Mon 

after  all,  she 
is  path,  and 
to  St.  Oucn  ] 
rks  of  a  wo- 

epeated  the 
ially,  "  I  see 
loof." 

sighed  heav- 
1  the  river  a 
moment  they 
side,  Claude 
pectcd  to  see 
oking  at  him 
indowy  river 
nd  intently ; 
le  shadow  of 
me  trembling 
ure  heavens. 
>  the  face  of 
eird,  waving 
ith  sharp  an- 
te the  dead, 
cannot  bear 

ily  the  long- 
10,   "  Aim^, 


FOUND. 

silently  each 
id  the  silence 
lude  gasped, 
lo  nothing  1 " 
d  the  body," 
if  suppressed 
\  the  ch&teau 
bmen  to  drag 
kes  it  beyond 


Claude  shuddered  at  the  word  "  it," 
and  covering  his  face  wHh  his  hands  he 
sobbed  aloud.  Was  it  possible,  then, 
that  Aimie,  the  perfection  of  health 
und  beauty,  the  gaycat,  brightest  crea- 
ture that  ever  made  sunlight  in  the  old 
chateau,  she  who  had  occupied  so  im- 
portant a  place  in  the  hearts  and 
thoughts  of  those  around  her,  —  had 
she  so  soon  become  only  it  ? 

The  priest's  face  softened  as  he  looked 
at  the  young  man ;  and  whatever  his 
suspicions  had  been  before,  his  expres- 
sion now  betrayed  that  he  no  longer 
doubted  the  innocence  he  had  so  lately 
accused.  But  he  had  a  purpose  to 
serve,  when  he  said  sternly,  with  a 
sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  "  You  are  a 
good  actor.  Monsieur  le  Corate  ;  you  are 
a  good  actor,  but  you  cannot  deceive 
me." 

"  0  Heaven !  is  it  possible  that 
you  can  believe  me  guilty  of  such  a 
crime,"  cried  Claude,  as  he  turned  from 
the  priest,  and  sprang  up  the  steep 
path  impetuously.-  "Come  with  me 
into  the  presence  of  the  Archdeacon, 
and  there  accuse  me  if  you  dare.  I  tell 
you  I  loved  her.  I  have  loved  her 
always  as  a  sister ;  dear  little  Aim^e, 
she  made  my  life  happy.  You  must  be 
mad  even  to  think  that  I  could  injure 
her." 

They  had  now  reached  the  top  of  the 
path  by  which  they  had  descended,  and 
the  spot  where  Aimie  had  so  suddenly 
disappeared. 

"  Look,"  cried  Claude,  as  he  strained 
his  eyes  in  the  distance,  —  "  look  yonder 
on  the  shore  path  to  St.  Ouen;  near 
that  rock  is  there  not  a  moving  form 
which  has  just  emerged  from  its  shadow, 
and  is  it  not  the  figure  of  a  woman  ? " 

"  I  see  nothing,"  said  the  priest,  fol- 
lowuig  his  gaze,  "  but  a  fisher-lad 
creeping  away  toward  the  town." 

"What  is  more  likely,"  continued 
Claude,  earnestly,  "than  that  she  in 
her  passion  dashed  down  the  path,  and 
rushed  away  to  St.  Ouen  1  She  will 
return  when  she  becomes  calmer.  Yes, 
I  feel  she  is  safe  ;  I  am  sure  we  shall 
see  her  before  the  evening  is  over." 

This  sudden  beam  of  hope  was  ex- 
tinguished by  the  priest,  who  replied, 
firmly  and  solemnly,  "  Young  man,  do 
not  waste  your  words  in  the  eflbrt  to 


deceive  me.  You  know  the  poor  girl 
will  never  return.  Even  now  hor  unre- 
sisting body  is  floating  toward  the  sea 
with  the  ebbing  tide." 

Claude  made  no  reply,  but  turned, 
his  soul  filled  with  indipiation  and 
grief,  and  hurried  through  the  Allde  des 
Soupirs  toward  the  chateau,  followed 
by  P6re  Benoit. 

The  Archdeacon,  with  bent  head  and 
folded  arms,  was  calmly  pacing  tho 
pavement  of  the  portico,  when  Claude, 
pale  and  excited,  rushed  into  his  pres- 
ence, a  few  steps  in  advance  of  the 
equally  excited  and  pallid  priest. 

Fabien  paused  in  his  walk,  and  raised 
his  head  haughtily  to  receive  the  per- 
turbed intruders.  But  his  expression 
of  reserve  changed  instantly  to  tho 
deepest  astonishment  and  horror  when 
Claude  cried  out,  "  0  mon  pere  !  I  fear 
Aim6e  has  fallen  over  the  cliff,  into  the 
river,  and  is  drowned." 

"  Ciel  t "  exclaimed  the  Archdeacon, 
forgetting  his  dignity.  "  What  do  you 
say  ?  Aim^  fallen  into  the  river ! 
Mother  of  God  !  Where  were  you,  tliat 
you  did  not  save  her  ] " 

"  Monseigneur,  permit  me  to  speak," 
interrupted  P^re  Benoit,  stepping  hum- 
bly forward.  "  This  unhappy  yoimg 
man  tells  a  sad  truth.  Mademoiselle 
Aim^e  has  suddenly  disappeared  over 
the  cliff  into  the  river.  I  heard  her 
reproaches  and  sobs;  I  heard  her  cry 
for  help ;  and  I  heard  him  accuse  him- 
self of  having  caused  her  death.  Mon- 
seigneur, I  must  speak  the  trutli  to  you. 
I  believe  M.  le  Comte  has  murdered  the 
defenceless  girl." 

"  Liar  ! "  shouted  Claude,  springing 
at  the  throat  of  the  priest ;  hut  before 
he  reached  his  victim  the  strong  arm 
of  the  Archdeacon  was  interposed,  and 
his  clear,  metallic  voice  smote  tho  ears 
of  PSre  Benoit  like  the  clash  of  a  sabre. 
"  Are  you  mad,  that  yon  waste  time  in 
accusing  Claude  de  Clermont  of  so  foul 
a  crime  1"  Claude,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  felt  like  blessing  his  guar- 
dian. "  Imbecile  /  do  you  not  know 
that  your  idle  words  may  bring  terrible 
suffering  upon  this  young  man,  and 
a  fearful  punishment  upon  yourselfl 
Leave  your  insane  suspicions  nnex- 
pressed,  and  act,  instead  of  talking  ab- 
surdities.    Send  a  man  to  St.  Onen; 


88 


A  CROWN  PROM  THE  SPEAR. 


P 


fSlftI 


Another  down  the  rivor,  to  Grand 
Couronno.  The  tide  is  ebbing,"  he  said, 
with  sad  sign! ficnnco ;  "let  some  boat- 
incu  lenvo  Bouillo  as  quickly  as  possible, 
dragging  fruni  there  to  this  point ;  and 
send  messengers  on  the  swiftest  horses, 
up  and  down  on  both  sides  of  the 
river." 

"  I  will  ride  to  Bonille,  myself,"  cried 
Claude,  "fur  I  must  do  something;  in- 
action would  drive  me  mad  ;  and  I  will 
not  return  until  I  have  found  some 
traces  of  her." 

In  a  few  moments  every  servant 
about  the  chateau  knew  that  Mademoi- 
selle Aim^e  had  disappeared  in  a  sud- 
den and  dreadful  manner ;  and  every 
one  was  ready  to  volunteer  his  services 
in  search  of  her,  for,  in  spite  of  her 
wayward  and  passionate  nature,  she 
had  endeared  herself  to  all ;  and  all,  in 
tliinking  of  her,  remembered  some  little 
act  of  generous  kindness  and  unselfish- 
ness toward  them. 

The  setvants  shook  their  heads  om- 
inously, while  they  hurried  from  room 
to  room,  summoned  momently  by  the 
imperative  bell  of  the  Archdeacon.  Va- 
rious conjectures  and  rumors  passed 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  dark  hints 
against  the  young  Count  were  already 
whispered  in  retired  comers,  for  the 
Archdeacon's  valet  had  overheard  the 
accusation  of  Pere  Benoit. 

Among  all  the  domestics  at  Cler- 
mont there  was  only  one  who  had  en- 
tire confidence  in  the  innocence  of  his 
master;  for  the  feeble  superstitious 
minds  of  hirelings  and  ignorants  are  so 
formed  and  held  in  subjection  by  the 
superior  strength  of  a  powerful  intellect, 
that  in  almost  every  case,  by  a  sort  of 
magnetic  influence,  they  become  thor- 
oughly subordinate  to  its  opinion.  Al- 
though the  Archdeacon  had  stoutly  de- 
fended Claude  from  the  accusation  of 
P6re  Benoit,  yet  from  sundry  expres- 
sions he  had  let  fall  the  servants  were 
convinced  that  it  was  only  an  act  of 
generosity  on  the  part  of  Monseigneur, 
and  a  desire  to  shield  his  ward  from  a 
suspicion  so  horrible.  Therefore,  as  we 
have  said,  there  was  only  one  who,  in 
spite  of  Fabien's  influence,  had  entire 
belief  in  Claude's  innocence ;  and  that 
was  his  valet,  Tristan,  who  concealed 
beneath  a  deformed  and  sickly  body  a 


mind  of  rare  discrimination  and  intelli- 
gence. This  poor  young  man  was  some 
years  older  than  Claude,  and  his  father 
had  been  valet  until  his  death  to  the 
former  Count  de  Clermont.  Since  Fa- 
bien's reign  commenced  at  the  ch&teau, 
gradually  and  with  evidently  good  rea- 
sons most  of  the  old  retainers  had  boon 
dismissed,  and  new  ones  had  been 
selected  by  him  to  fill  their  places. 
This  poor  sickly  boy  would  have  doubt- 
less shared  the  fate  of  the  others,  if  the 
Archdeacon,  judging  from  his  vague  and 
inane  expression,  had  not  believed  him 
to  be  half  idiotic  and  half  stupid,  and 
therefore  harmless.  Owing  to  this  con- 
viction and  the  earnest  entreaties  of 
Claude,  who  had  a  deep  afi'ection  for 
him,  he  was  allowed  to  remain.  He 
was  a  most  singular-looking  creature, 
having  a  great  head  covered  with  coarse 
shaggy  hair,  a  pale,  hollow  face,  great 
eyes  much  too  far  apart,  with  some- 
thing of  the  pitiful,  imploring  expression 
of  a  dumb  animal.  Beside  ho  was  hunch- 
backed, and  all  of  one  side  was  shorter 
than  the  other ;  from  that  cause  his  gait 
was  a  grotesque  limp,  and  every  move- 
ment a  sort  of  double  intention.  To 
strangers  he  was  simply  repulsive. 
Celeste,  as  gentle  as  she  was,  had  often 
felt  like  running  away  from  him,  even 
when  he  brought  her  mcssngcs  from 
Claude,  and  the  servants  at  the  cli&teau 
made  him  a  butt  for  all  their  pranks 
and  wickednesses.  Poor  soul !  he  never 
complained  to  his  master,  but  bore  their 
buflets  with  a  patience  and  gentleness 
that  was  truly  touching.  His  love  for 
Aimee  was  only  second  to  his  love  for 
Claude ;  for  the  brave,  high-spirited  girl 
had  been  his  champion  in  more  than 
one  encounter  with  the  Archdeacon,  in 
which  the  latter  had  always  come  off 
worsted  ;  and  it  was  woe  unutterable  to 
an  unlucky  trickster  if  she  detected  him 
at  his  cruel  pastime,  for  her  indignation 
and  scorn  came  upon  him  like  a  whirl- 
wind. The  only  instance  in  which 
Claude  had  ever  been  known  to  assert 
his  authority  was  to  protect  his  unfortu- 
nate favorite  from  the  aggressive  treat- 
ment of  Fabienand  his  minions.  He 
had  seen  those  patient  eyes  watching 
him  from  childhood  with  a  fidelity  as 
beautiful  as  it  is  rare,  and  he  had  be- 
come   so  accustomed  to  his  uncouth 


}n  and  intelli- 
man  was  booio 
nud  hiH  father 
death  to  the 
it.     Siuco  Fa- 
,t  the  ch&tcau, 
ntly  good  rea- 
nera  had  bcou 
es    had   bcea 
their  plnces. 
;d  have  doubt- 
others,  if  the 
his  vague  and 
believed  him 
If  stupid,  aud 
ig  to  this  con- 
entreaties  of 
affection  for 
remain.     He 
:ing   creature, 
3d  with  coarse 
)w  face,  great 
,  with   some- 
ing  expression 
ho  was  hunch- 
le  was  shorter 
cause  his  gait 
1  every  move- 
itention.     To 
[y    repulsive. 
!as,  had  often 
)m  him,  even 
essnges  from 
t  the  chateau 
their  pranks 
)ul !  he  never 
jut  bore  their 
id  gentleness 
His  love  for 
>  his  love  for 
b-spirited  girl 
a  more  than 
'chdeocon,  in 
ays  come  off 
nutterable  to 
detected  him 
r  indignation 
like  a  whirl- 
:e    in   which 
}wn  to  assert 
I;  his  unfortu- 
ressive  treat- 
linions.     He 
'es   watching 
a  fidelity  as 
I  be  had  be- 
his  viucouth 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR, 


89 


form,  his  halting  gait,  and  his  haggard 
face,  that  if  any  one  had  said  so  him, 
"  Tristan  is  hideous,"  he  would  have  re- 
plied truthfully,  "  To  me  ho  is  not  even 

ugly." 

On  this  night,  while  the  servants  were 
discussing  their  young  master,,  the 
hunchback  stood  silent  and  apart,  his 
short  and  his  long  arm  folded,  his  head, 
as  usual,  lopped  on  the  lower  shoulder, 
and  his  great  eyes  fixed  with  a  melan- 
choly surprise  on  the  knot  of  gossips. 
No  one  seemed  to  notice  him,  until  a 
maid  with  a  kinder  heart  than  the  oth- 
ers exclaimed,  as  she  glanced  toward  him, 
"  Look,  the  hunchback  is  weeping."  It 
was  true,  the  great  tears  were  slowly 
rolling  down  the  thin  cheeks,  and  yet  he 
seemed  unconscious  that  he  wept  until 
a  shout  of  derision  made  him  suddenly 
aware  of  it.  Then  he  quickly  wiped  away 
the  tears  with  the  back  of  his  loiig  lean 
hand,  and  turning  silently  he  ho.)bled 
away  with  one  reproachful  look  at  his 
tormentors. 

Before  a  half-hour  had  passed  tho  last 
messenger  had  ridden  off  on  Ins  gloomy 
errand,  the  sounds  of  hurry mg  feet  and 
excited  voices  ceased,  and  silence  reigned 
over  the  house. 

In  the  study  sat  the  Archdeacon  and 
Pfere  Benoit;  neither  had  spoken  for 
some  time.  Fabien's  face  was  buried  in 
his  hands ;  outwardly  he  seemed  calm, 
hut  the  convulsive  pressure  of  his 
strong  fingers  into  his  forehead,  and  the 
shiver  that  now  and  then  shook  him, 
betrayed  a  terrible  emotion  that  he 
with  difficulty  suppressed.  The  priest's 
face  was  haggard  and  stony,  his  sunken 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  face  of  the  clock 
as  it  told  the  slow  hours,  his  chest  rose 
and  fell  with  his  labored  breathing,  and 
the  great  drops  of  sweat  gathered  and 
rolled  down  his  hollow  cheeks,  while 
from  time  to  time  he  wrung  his 
hands  in  anguish  and  moaned,  "  Oh ! 
oh !  oh  !  " 

When  the  bell  in  the  turret  of  the 
chapel  sounded  the  hour  of  midnight, 
it  seemed  to  arouse  the  Archdeacon 
from  his  stupor,  for  he  raised  his  head 
and  fixed  his  red  swollen  eyes  on  the 
face  of  Pire  Benoit,  saying  iff  a  low 
voice,  "  Midnight,  and  no  tidings  yet. 
Mon  Dieu  /  how  slowly  time  drags  when 
one  waits  in  agony.     God  grant  that  I 


may  know  the  worst  soon ;  this  suspense 
is  insupportable." 

"  You  will  never  know  more  than  you 
know  now,"  said  P6re  Benoit ;  "  long 
before  they  commenced  their  search,  her 
body  had  floated  with  the  ebbing  tide 
far  below  Bouille." 

"  Stop  your  ominous  croaking,"  cried 
Fabien,  angrily;  "how  can  you  know 
whether  she  will  be  found  or  not  1  She 
may  even  now  be  living.  You  do  not 
know  the  girl  as  well  as  I  do.  In  a 
sudden  access  of  passion,  she  is  capable 
of  doing  anything  to  alarm  those  who 
love  her  J  perhaps  to-morrow  she  will 
repent  and  return." 

"  She  will  never  return,"  replied  the 
priest,  solemnly. 

The  Archdeacon's  heart  sank,  for  he 
remembered  the  last  interview  in  the 
library,  and  the  strange  manner  of 
Aim^e,  which  showed  she  was  laboring 
under  no  ordinary  excitement. 

"  Tell  me  all  you  know  of  this,  and 
what  reasons  you  have  for  your  suspi- 
cions," he  said  at  length. 

Then  the  priest  recounted  minutely 
the  scene  between  Claude  and  Aim6e 
as  far  as  ho  had  heard ;  for  although  ■ 
he  was  hidden  in  a  hedge  near  them, 
every  word  had  not  reached  his  ear, 
and,  owing  to  the  intervening  trees,  he 
had  seen  nothing.  When  he  repeated 
the  passionate  words  the  girl  had  ad- 
dressed to  her  companion,  Fabien  trem- 
bled visibly,  but  he  did  not  interrupt 
the  narrator  until  he  said,  "  How  can 
you  doubt  that  M.  le  Comte  caused 
her  death  1" 

Fabien  folded  his  arms  on  the  table, 
and  leaning  forward  he  looked  with  a 
strange  expression  into  the  face  of  the 
priest  and  said,  "  Indirectly,  perhaps." 

"  Indirectly,"  repeated  P6re  Benoit 
sharply.  "  Is  it  then  any  less  a  mur- 
der r* 

"  There  is  no  doubt,"  continued  the 
Archdeacon,  without  noticing  the  ques- 
tion, —  "  there  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind 
as  to  his  having  trifled  with  the  poor 
child,  and  then -driven  her  to  desper- 
ation by  his  professed  love  for  Madem- 
oiselle Monthclon.  But  the  accusation 
you  make  is  a  grave  one,  and  unless  it 
can  be  proved  had  better  never  be  ad- 
vanced. Hints  do  no  harm,  but  an 
open  avowal  of  your  opinion  may  lead 


^ 


40 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


m. 


M'^ 


\mi 


to  soriouB  results.  I  for  many  rcasoiiH 
must  defend  tho  Count  of  Clermont 
from  this  charge;  he  is  my  ward,  my 
pupil,  and  tho  world  would  not  think 
well  of  me  if  I  should  abandon  him  in 
tho  hour  of  trouble.  No,  whatever 
comes  of  this,  I  must  defend  him.  It 
is  true  I  have  sworn  to  bo  instrumental 
in  visiting  the  sins  of  tho  father  upon 
the  child.  I  have  sworn  to  be  revenged 
for  a  greater  wrong  than  any  you  have 
suffered,  and  yet  oj)enly  I  must  do  noth- 
ing ;  but  you  need  have  no  scruples, 
only  be  judicious." 

"Je  comprends,"  replied  the  priest, 
while  something  like  exultation  spar- 
kled in  his  heavy  eyes ;  "  now  is  our 
time  to  crush  tho  viper." 

"  The  Devil  sometimes  gives  oppor- 
tunities to  saints.  This  dreadful  event 
may  be  the  means  of  our  doing  some- 
thing for  the  Church,"  said  the  Arch- 
deacon with  bitter  irony,  for  he  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  wear  his  mask 
closely  in  the  presence  of  one  who  knew 
too  well  what  it  concealed. 

"  I  care  not  for  tho  Church,  if  I  can 
but  accomplish  my  revenge  at  last," 
said  P6ro  Benoit  fiercely.  "  If  I  could 
but  see  a  Count  of  Clermont  condemned 
as  a  criminal,  whether  guilty  or  inno- 
cent, only  condemned  and  punished, 
my  aim  would  be  completed,  and  I 
should  feel  that  I  had  not  plotted  and 
suffered  in  vaifl," 

"  You  may  noi  live  to  see  him  con- 
demned by  the  laws  of  his  country ; 
there  is  no  proof,  and  there  never  will 
be,  I  fear,  but  even  less  is  enough  for 
our  purpose,"  replied  Fabien  calmly ; 
"his  disgrace  and  ruin  can  bt  accom- 
plished easily,  by  taking  advantage  of 
this  sad  event  to  further  our  plans." 

The  hours  wore  on,  the  clock  tolled 
one,  two,  three ;  still  these  two  men, 
under  the  shadow  of  night,  and  under 
the  shadow  of  an  awful  calamity,  plotted 
the  ruin  of  the  unhappy  young  man 
who,  with  weary  body,  aching  heart,  and 
burning  brain,  hastened  back  to  Cler- 
mont to  relieve  their  prolonged  vigil. 

The  dawn  trembling  to  daylight 
forced  itself  into  the  study,  putting  to 
shame  the  sickly  flame  cf  the  lamp, 
that  only  half  illuminated  the  weird 
surroundings  and  the  sinister  faces  of 
the  two  priests,  when  Claude,  followed 


by  a  troop  of  pale,  anxious  servants, 
entered  the  room. 

Both  men  sprang  simultaneously  to 
their  feet,  their  questions  in  their  eyes, 
for  their  blunchod  lips  refused  to  utter 
a  word. 

"  This  is  all  we  have  fotmd,"  gasped 
Claude,  as  he  came  forward  and  laid 
upon  the  table  the  scarlet  scarf,  now 
drenched  and  soiled,  that  Aim^n  had 
worn  around  her  neck.  "  This  is  all. 
We  found  it  two  miles  below,  attached 
to  a  piece  of  drift-wood  in  the  middle 
of  the  river."  Then  his  strength  and 
calmness  giving  way,  he  sank  into  a 
chair  and  burst  into  sobs. 


PART  ELEVENTH. 

THB  PLOT   MATURES. 

From  the  moment  on  that  terrible 
night  when  Claude  returned  with  the 
scarlet  scarf  that  Aim6e  had  worn  the 
last  time  she  was  seen,  suspicion  became 
confirmation  in  the  minds  of  all.  None 
now  doubted  that  she  had  thrown  her- 
self, or  had  fallen  accidentally,,  or  had 
been  pushed  from  the  precipice  into  tho 
Seine.  Some  were  of  one  opinion,  some 
of  another,  but  the  greater  part,  no 
slower  than  the  rest  of  humanity  to  be- 
lieve the  worst  of  their  fellow-creatures, 
entertained  the  latter.  So  it  is  not 
difficult  to  conceive  that,  as  Claude  was 
last  seen  in  her  company,  he  was  the 
one  accused  by  others,  as  well  as  by  Pdre 
Benoit.  For  many  days  after  she  dis- 
appeared the  servants  of  Clermont  and 
the  boatmen  on  the  river  continued 
their  search  for  the  body  of  the  un- 
fortunate girl.  But  whether  it  had 
drifted  down  with  the  ebbing  tide,  and 
so  was  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  unex- 
plored sea,  or  whether  it  had  lodged 
among  th?  iibris  in  the  bottom  of  the 
river,  none  could  tell,  and  none  could 
ever  know  until  God  in  his  justice 
revealed  it. 

During  the  time  the  search  was  con- 
tinued, the  Archdeacon  seemed  pos- 
sessed with  a  spirit  of  restlessness.  Day 
and  night  he  wandered  about,  up  and 
down  the  river,  over  the  park,  and 
through  the  AIUq  des  Soupirs,  to  the 


"  JS^  vS^V-  ^w-itf  ii^  *  i^ 


.|-...-Ti.^,»'Tl.iriHBi!f»'M*  ■■     - 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


«t 


>UB  serrants, 

tancouBly  to 
1  their  eyes, 
iBed  to  utter 

md,"  gasped 

rd  and  laid 

t  scarf,  now 

Aim^n  had 

This  is  all. 

9W,  attached 

the  middle 

trcngth  and 

iank  into  a 


m. 

IS8. 

that  terrible 
cd  with  the 
ad  worn  the 
icion  became 
f  all.  None 
thrown  her- 
:ally,.  or  had 
pice  into  the 
pinion,  some 
;er  part,  no 
lanity  to  be- 
)w-creature8, 

0  it  is   not 

1  Claude  was 
he  was  the 

ill  as  by  Pdre 
Fter  she  dis- 
lermont  and 
r  continued 

of  the  un- 
ther  it  had 
ng  tide,  and 
)f  the  unex- 

had  lodged 
)ttom  of  the 

none  could 

his   justice 

rch  was  con- 
seemed  pos- 
ssuess.  Day 
out,  up  and 
I  park,  and 
ipirs,  to  the 


cliflf  where  she  was  last  seen  ;  there  he 
would  stand  for  hours  leaning  over  the 
precipice,  gazing  down  into  tiio  dcptlm 
of  tlio  river,  as  though  ho  could  boo  fur 
below  t)ie  tiuigled  rubbish  and  slimy 
stones  that  lined  its  bed.  When  night 
obscured  all  objects  save  the  light  from 
the  lanterns  of  the  boatmen,  gleaming 
here  and  there  mysteriouoly  on  the  riv- 
er's dark  surface,  an  they  continued  their 
melancholy  task,  ho  would  return  hag- 
gard and  silent  to  the  ch&teau  and  en- 
tor  his  study  alone.  Sometimes  Claude, 
wishing  for  a  word  of  comfort,  would 
seek  him  there  late  in  the  night ;  but 
the  suppressed  sound  of  sobs  and  moans 
would  arrest  him  on  the  threshold,  and 
send  him  back  shivering  to  his  room. 

P6re  Benoit  seemed  to  have  deserted 
them,  for,  the  morning  after  the  first 
night  of  the  search,  ho  had  left  the 
ch&teau,  and  hod  not  since  reappeared, 
although  Tristan  told  his  young  master 
that  ho  had  seen  the  priest  in  the  town, 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  common  peo- 
ple to  whom  he  was  recounting  the 
mysterious  disappearance  of  Aim<ie,  with 
many  dark  threats  against  Claude,  who, 
he  hinted,  was  her  seducer  and  murderer. 

"  0,  he  is  mad  !  "  cried  Claude  with 
the  deepest  indignation,  when  Tristan 
had  concluded  his  story. 

"Yes,  that  may  be.  Monsieur  le 
Comte,"  replied  the  hunchback,  with 
anxiety  in  his  voice ;  "  I  always  thought 
there  was  something  strange  in  the 
manner  of  P^re  Benoit ;  in  fact,  none  of 
us  think  him  anything  but  an  impostor 
who  has  deceived  the  kind  heart  of 
Monseigneur  the  Archdeacon.  But  im- 
postor or  mad,  whichever  he  may  be,  he 
should  not  be  allowed  to  spread  such  a 
shameful  story  through  the  town." 

"  What  difference  1 "  said  Claude,  care- 
lessly, although  ho  looked  distressed. 
"  No  one  will  believe  the  words  of  a 
lunatic.  The  people  must  know  me 
incapable  of  such  a  crime." 

The  faithful  servant  hesitated  a  little, 
seeing  his  young  master's  troubled  face, 
on  which  there  was  such  a  shadow  of 
sorrow  that  it  pained  him  to  tell  him 
all  he  had  heard. 

"Go  on,"  said  Claude,  noticing  his 
reluctance.  "  Did  they  appear  to  be- 
lieve him  1 " 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  the  canaille  always 


l>eliove  the  worst.  Shouts  and  cries  of 
indignation  aroso  from  tlie  wliole  crowd, 
and  tlioy  declared  that,  although  you 
wore  a  count,  you  should  bo  punished 
in  the  same  way  as  wiw  Pierre  (ilarnot, 
who  last  year  killed  his  mistrcsH  in  a  fit 
of  jealousy.  Do  you  remember  tJie  ter- 
rii)le  manner  in  which  they  put  him  to 
death  1  " 

Claude  turned  pale  ;  yes,  ho  remem- 
bered too  well  how  they  dragged  the 
poor  wretch  from  his  hiding-place  and, 
after  inflicting  every  possible  torture 
upon  him,  hung  him  to  a  branch  of  a 
tree,  from  which  they  did  not  allow  the 
body  to  bo  taken  until  it  was  a  sight 
too  loathsome  to  behold. 

"  0  my  God  !  you  do  not  tell  mo  they 
spoke  of  such  a  deed,"  cried  the  unhappy 
young  man.  "  Am  I  not  then  wretched 
enough,  that  this  horror  must  be  added 
to  my  other  suflcring  1 " 

"  I  tried  to  speak  to  the  crowd,  mon- 
sieur ;  I  tried  to  tell  them  that  you  were 
innocent,  and  that  the  priest  was  mad  ; 
but  they  would  not  listen  to  mo,  they 
called  me  a  hunchbacked  knave,  said  I 
was  in  league  with  you,  and  began  to 
pelt  me  with  stones,  sticks,  and  garbage 
of  all  sorts,  until  I  was  obliged  to  take 
refuge  in  the  shop  of  Mathicu  tho  tailor." 

"  Kind  soul ! "  said  Claude,  looking  at 
Tristan  with  pitying  affection.  "You 
must  not  endanger  yourself  again  to 
defend  mo.  Have  you  told  the  Arch- 
deacon of  this  ^ " 

"  No,  monsieur,  I  have  not  told  him, 
but  I  think  he  knows  of  it  from  his  valet, 
who  was  with  me  at  the  time,  and  he 
said  that  I  was  a  booby  to  interfere 
with  the  mob,  as  they  nearly  always 
had  the  right  on  their  side.  0  mon- 
sieur, the  valet  Andr*  is  a  traitor  to  you, 
and  false  to  Monseigneur  the  Archdea- 
con! for  I  am  sure  he  and  the  priest 
joined  with  the  mob  to  cry  you  down." 

"  It  is  worse  than  I  thought,"  sighed 
the  poor  young  man,  "when  even  the 
servants  of  my  own  household  turn 
against  me.  I  will  go  to  Father  Fabien 
directly,  and  ask  him  if  some  measures 
cannot  be  taken  to  silence  this  mad- 
man." 

Claude  had  felt  his  heart  drawn 
toward  the  Archdeacon  ever  since  tho 
night  he  had  defended  him  so  warmly 
from  the  accusation  of  P^re  Benoit,  and 


42 


A  CUOWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


80  ho  now  Bought  his  proHence  with  tho 
conviction  that  ho  wan  truly  \m  fVicnd, 
nud  would  still  continue  to  protoct  him 
from  tho  ])orHocution  of  his  ononiics. 
Fnbion  listoncd  to  him,  but  scorned  to 
think  tho  matter  demanded  very  little 
attention.  "  It  is  servants'  gossip,"  he 
said,  "  and  the  best  way  to  silence  it  is 
to  take  no  notice  of  it."  Still  his  man- 
ner did  not  reassure  ('laude.  There  was 
something  of  suspicion  and  doubt  in 
the  Archdeacon's  regard  that  chilled 
him  and  made  him  tremble  more  than 
Tristan's  story  had  done. 

"0  Heaven!"  ho  thought,  "if  ho 
too  should  believe  mo  guilty  and  aban- 
don mo,  the  fate  of  poor  Pierre  (iamet 
may  indeed  bo  mine."  Determined  to 
know  the  worst  at  once,  ho  summoned 
all  his  resolution  and  courage  to  his  aid, 
and  raising  his  head  proudly,  while  the 
light  of  truth  and  innocence  beamed 
from  his  clear  eyes,  he  said  in  a  firm 
but  very  gentle  voice,  "  Father  Fabion, 
have  you  entire  confidence  in  me,  and 
do  you  believe  me  incapable  of  the 
crime  they  accuse  me  of  1  " 

Tho  Archdeacon  returned  Claude's 
steady  gaze  with  one  of  well-simulated 
sorrow,  and  replied  sadly,  "  My  poor 
boy,  I  pity  you  1  God  knows  I  pity  you  ! 
and  I  will  never  desert  you.  Your 
father,  on  his  death-bed,  left  you  to  me 
as  a  most  solemn  trust,  and  I  will  be 
faithful  to  that  trust.  Whatever  I  may 
believe  respecting  this  dreadful  calamity 
will  remain  close  locked  in  my  own 
heart,  and  none  shall  over  know  it.  Be- 
fore tho  world  I  shall  defend  you,  and 
strive  to  prove  your  innocence,  although 
I  fear  you  are  guilty.  But  as  I  have 
pledged  myself,  I  will  never  desert  you." 

Claude  clasped  his  hands  to  his  head 
and  uttered  a  sharp  cry :  "  This  is 
terrible !  And  Celeste,  does  she  also 
believe  mo  guilty  t " 

"  She  does,  and  her  heart  is  vellnigh 
broken." 

"  I  will  see  her,  if  it  costs  me  my  life, 
and  declare  my  innocence  to  her ;  and 
then,  if  she  believes  me  guilty,  I  shall 
doubt  the  justice  of  God." 

"  Rash  young  man  ! "  said  Fabion 
coldly,  "  she  will  not  see  you,  and  you 
cannot  force  yourself  into  her  pres- 
ence." 

"  I  will  see  her,  and  nothing  shall  pre- 


vent mo,"  cried  Claude,  as  he  rushed, 
half  fVenzicd,  from  tho  room. 

When  he  reached  tho  door  of  tho 
Ch&toau  Montholon,  ho  was  met  by  the 
portier,  who  looked  at  him  with  stupid 
astonishment,  retreating  as  Claude  ad- 
vanced, like  one  who  feared  to  bo  in- 
fected by  a  plague.  "Give  this  to  your 
mistress  directly,"  he  said,  holding  out 
a  card  on  whicli  ho  had  written  a  few 
words,  imploring  Cdleste  to  grant  him 
an  interview,  that  ho  might  convince 
her  of  his  innocence.  The  man  did  not 
offer  to  take  it,  but  folded  his  anna 
and  shook  his  head,  saying  imperti- 
nently, —  he  who  had  been  all  obsequi- 
ousness before,  —  "1  was  ordered  not  to 
admit  Monsieur,  neither  to  take  any 
messages  from  him  to  Mademoiselle." 

"Did  your  mistress  give  you  those 
orders  herself  1"  asked  Claude,  with  a 
sinking  heart. 

"  No,  monsieur.  Monseigneur  the 
Archdeacon  gives  me  my  orders  on  all 
important  matters ;  beside,  Mademoiselle 
is  too  ill  to  see  any  one." 

"  111  I "  he  repeated  after  tho  servant, 
—  "  ill,  too  ill  to  leave  her  room  1 " 

"No,  monsieur.  Mademoiselle  walks 
about  the  corridors  a  half-hour  each 
day,  and  when  the  weather  is  fine  she 
takes  a  short  turn  with  Fanchette  in 
tho  summer  garden;  but  sho  is  very 
weak  and  low,  poor  young  lady !  " 

Claudo  sighed  heavily  as  ho  lingered, 
wishing  to  ask  many  questions  about 
Celeste,  and  what  hour  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  taking  her  daily  exercise ;  but 
he  did  not  mean  tho  servant  should 
know  he  had  noticed  his  remark  alraut 
the  "turn  in  the  summer  garden,"  so 
he  only  said,  "I  am  sorry,  Jacques, 
your  mistress  is  so  poorly.  You  need 
not  say  to  her  that  I  have  been  here. 
I  will  wait  until  she  is  bettor." 

Jacques  lot  him  out  a  little  more  re- 
spectfully than  he  had  let  him  in ;  for 
the  calm  and  unconscious  bearing  of 
the  young  man  somewhat  disarmed  the 
suspicion  of  the  servant,  who  could  not 
believe  that  a  count  who  had  committed 
a  crime  that  places  one  on  a  level  with 
the  lowest  could  still  appear  with  the 
superior  demeanor  of  a  noble  and  a 
gentleman. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  said  the  old 
man  to  the  other  servants,  after  he  had 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


43 


ho  rushed, 
m. 

loor  of  the 
met  by  the 
with  stupid 

Chui<lu  mi- 
ll to  ho  in- 
this  to  your 
holding  out 
ritton  'i  few 

grant  him 

it  convince 

man  did  not 

1    his   arms 

ing   imperti- 

all  ohHoqui- 
dercd  not  to 
to  take  any 
imoiHelle." 
0  you  those 
Aude,  with  a 

seigneur  the 
trders  on  all 
Mademoiselle 

the  servant, 
room  1 " 
oisello  walks 
ilf-hour  each 
ir  is  fine  she 
Fanchette  in 
;  she  is  very 
lady ! " 
I  he  lingered, 
mtions  about 
a  was  in  the 
exercise ;  but 
rvant  should 
cmark  alraut 
r  garden,"  so 
rry,  Jacques, 
^  You  need 
ve  been  here, 
ter." 
ttlo  more  re- 

him  in;  for 
s  bearing  of 
disarmed  the 
rho  could  not 
id  committed 
1  a  level  with 
lear  with  the 
noble  and  a 

said  the  old 
after  he  had 


related  to  them  his  interview  with  the 
suspected,  —  "it  u  very  strange  that 
such  a  good  and  kind-looking  young 
man  as  Aionsieur  lo  Comto  should  kill  u 
girl  hu  always  seemed  so  fond  of  as  he 
did  of  Mademoiselle  Aim(io.  If  he  in 
guilty,  why  don't  ho  take  himself  off 
while  he  has  time  I  It  leemt  like  in- 
nocence, staying  here  and  braving  jus- 
tice. Still  there  it  a  mystery,  and  I  am 
certain  that  Monseigneur  suspects  him, 
although  ho  says  nothing." 

'TjVmx  $ot  !  How  do  you  know  Mon- 
seigneur  suspects  him,  if  ho  says  noth- 
ing 1"  inquired  a  port  chambermaid, 
who  was  inclined  to  take  the  part  of 
the  handsome  young  Count.  "  I  know 
what  I  would  do  if  I  was  Mademoiselle 
C61este  and  M.  lo  Comte  was  my  lovor. 
I  would  800  him  "  —  this  with  a  strong 
emphasis  on  the  "  would,"  a  sharp  little 
nod,  and  a  significant  snap  of  her  fingers 
in  the  direction  of  Clermont  —  "  in  spite 
of  Monseigneur's  commands  and  the  old 
priest's  lies ;  they  are  hypocrites,  both  of 
them,  and  not  half  so  good  as  the  young 
man  they  slander,  and  you  are  no  better, 
et  voili  tout  !  " 

This  energetio  tirade  finished,  Nanon 
tossed  her  pretty  head  defiantly,  dove 
her  hands  into  the  little  pockets  of  her 
tiny  apron,  and  turning  her  back  on  old 
Jacques,  who  entertained  the  warmest 
admiration  for  her,  left  the  room  amid 
a  buzz  of  astonishment. 

"  I  believe  he  m  innocent,"  said 
Jacques,  with  conviction,  as  he  pursed 
up  his  mouth  and  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
making  a  significant  grimace  in  the 
direction  of  Nanon.  "  I  think  she 
it  right ;  and  I  will  go  and  tell  her 
so,  for  I  don't  like  the  little  witch  to  be 
angry  with  me."  So,  crossing  his  arms 
under  the  tails  of  his  green  coat,  he 
walked  off  after  the  indignant  maid. 

Claude  loitered  down  the  avenue  that 
led  to  the  summer  garden  where  Mad- 
emoiselle Monthelon  was  in  the  habit  of 
walking  with  Fanchette.  He  knew  it 
was  a  favorite  spot,  and,  if  she  left  the 
ch&teau,  she  would  certainly  come  there 
to  enjoy  the  beauty  and  fragrance  of 
the  flowers,  now  in  their  most  luxuriant 
bloom.  There  was  a  little  arbor  cov- 
ered with  clematis  and  Fontenay  roses, 
where  they  hod  often  hidden  during 
their  childish  gomes,  and  where,  not 


many  days  before,  ho  had  whispered  to 
('t'loHto  the  story  that  is  always  new, 
and  that  never  bocomos  tame  from 
repetition.  How  many  times  Aimee's 
clear  laugh  had  discuvorod  hor  to  him, 
after  he  had  searched  throughout  the 
grounds  in  vain,  and  hor  white  haiuls 
and  sparkling  oyes  had  flashed  through 
tho  curtain  of  leaves  an  eager  welcome. 
Now  the  place  was  silent  and  deserted  ; 
a  solitary  bird  twittered,  he  thought, 
mournfully ;  and  the  withered  rose- 
leaves  wore  scattered  everywhere.  In 
that  moment  he  thought  moro  of  the 
departed  Aim^o  than  of  tho  living 
Celeste  ;  and  sinking  into  a  seat,  ho 
said,  between  his  sobs,  "  0  ma  bien 
chirie  !  You  will  come  here  no  more. 
I  shall  never  again  look  upon  your  dear 
face.  You  are  gone  fVom  my  life  forever. 
Alas  I  I  feel  the  truth  in  all  its  bitter- 
ness. 1  would  give  half  of  my  future  to 
see  you  sitting  hero  aa  I  have  seen  you 
so  many  times  ;  but  no  desire  nor  sacri- 
fice can  bring  you  back  to  me,  you  are 
gone  as  suddenly  as  a  rainlww  fades 
from  tho  heavens,  or  the  sunlight  from 
tho  waves  of  tho  sea.  Thore  is  no  trace 
of  you  here.  I  cannot  see  your  faco  in 
tho  heart  of  the  rose,  nor  hoar  your 
voice  in  the  murmuring  of  its  leaves. 
The  sunlight  mocks  me,  for  it  will  not 
drive  away  the  shadow  that  rests  upon 
me.  Neither  will  it  reveal  the  mystery 
of  your  death.  Light  and  darkness  are 
alike,  for  all  is  changed  suddenly,  — 
so  suddenly  that  I  am  blinded  and  stu- 
pefied by  the  shook.  Aim^e  dead,  and 
Celeste  worse  than  dead,  if  she  believes 
me  guilty  of  the  crimo  imputed  to  mo. 
What  greater  misfortunes  can  come  upon 
mel" 

He  arose,  and  paced  back  and  forth 
for  some  time,  trying  to  compose  and 
arrange  his  thoughts ;  but  ho  could 
understand  nothing  clearly,  only  that 
his  need  to  see  Celeste  was  imperative. 
"  I  feel  I  must  see  her  or  die,"  he  oaid 
to  himself.  "I  must  speak  with  her, 
and  Ood  grant  that  she  may  listen  to 
me  and  believe  me  I  I  shall  remain 
here  until  she  comes ;  it  does  not  matter 
how  long,  but  here  I  remain  until  I 
have  spoken  with  her."  He  threw  him- 
self again  upon  the  rustic  seat.  Weak- 
ened by  his  emotions  and  anxiety,  his 
head  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  he  sank 


i 


:■  I 
H)|1 


N 


ill 


44 


A  CnOWN   FROM  THE  SPEAR 


into  a  Rort  of  Htiipor,  in  which  \m  life 
hcciikmI  to  piiNH  hofori"  liim  :  fintt  a  [mn- 
oriuim  of  pliicid  ttcenra,  with  hhio  Hkies, 
IHiHtiiriil  vuIl(>yH,  anil  Hiinny  h1<iih>n  ; 
then  111!  chnnKt'd,  niid  to  thcHo  gentle 
|iictiircH  Hiiccoi-dcd  hirid  and  wind- 
t<)HM«'d  cloiidw,  Hwollcn  Hlrt'atnB,  and  vol- 
cimic  hciglitH.  Aini(^u  Mcvniod  to  piiHn 
hcforo  him  with  piiHHion  and  angniHh 
imprintfd  on  every  feature  ;  and  then 
apiiii,  ha^'f^ani,  and  drcnclied  with  tlie 
Hcii,  a  wave  ca«t  her  at  hiH  feet.  ( '6- 
loHte,  palUd  and  worn  with  sorrow,  np- 
pcarcd  to  wring  her  handH  an<l  implore 
him  to  leave  lier ;  while  Fahien  and 
Pere  ]teniiit  thundered  in  his  earn, 
"  These  are  your  victiniB."  His  soul 
wan  in  a  tumult  of  agony,  and  his  sick 
fancy  distorted  and  exaggerated  his 
misfortune  until  it  seemed  as  though 
madness  or  death  must  soon  end  it. 

Nothing  wounds  us  like  injustice 
from  those  wo  love.  Wo  feel  that  thoy 
should  believe  us  incapable  of  wrong, 
even  if  the  darkest  suspicion  rests  upon 
us.  Wo  arc  slow  to  allow  that  they 
have  shared  our  lives  and  thoughts,  our 
closest  companionship,  in  vain  ;  that  we 
hav(>  opened  out  to  them  the  tablets  of 
our  heart,  which  has  been  but  a  blank 
if  they  have  not  understood  tho  char- 
acters thereon  better  than  those  to 
whom  wo  have  closed  them. 

To  Claudo  it  was  tho  most  insup- 
portable grief  of  all,  that  Cdleste  should 
believe  him  guilty.  He  thought  of  the 
words  of  the  priest  as  the  words  of  a 
madman,  of  tho  Archdeacon's  suspicion 
only  as  tho  injustice  of  dislike  and 
enmity  ;  but  Celeste,  she  who  had  given 
him  her  love,  and  promised  to  share  his 
life,  how  could  she  condemn  him  un- 
heard? The  more  he  pondered  over 
these  terrible  complications,  the  more 
certain  he  felt  that  there  was  some  plot 
in  progress  to  separate  them,  and  that 
his  guardian  and  P^ro  Bonoit  were  at 
the  bottom  of  it.  "  If  I  could  but  cir- 
cumvent them,"  he  thought,  "  if  I  were 
but  of  age  and  free  from  the  hateful 
control  of  the  Archdeacon,  I  might  find 
justice ;  but  as  it  is  I  am  entangled  in 
a  net  from  which  I  cannot  free  myself. 
0,  why  did  my  father  leave  mo  in  the 
power  of  such  a  dangerous  man  !  " 

So  absorbed  was  Claude  in  his  painful 
thoughts,  that  he  had  forgotten  where 


ho  was  and  tho  object  for  which  ho  was 
there,  until  a  rustling  of  tlit!  hmvos  and 
a  sweet  plaintive  voice  arouHod  him. 

"  Kanchotte,  aro  nut  tho  roses  falling 
early  this  year  1" 

Many  of  us  can  foci  the  simple 
pathos  of  the  (luestinn,  for  there  aro 
years  in  most  lives  when  tho  roses  seem 
to  fall  early.  Hut  tlipy  smote  tho 
heart  of  Claude  with  a  sudden  puin,  and 
the  hot  tears  started  to  his  eyes  as  ho 
parted  the  vines  and  looked  out  on  the 
path  down  whic^h  they  camo. 

(Jdlesto  in  pun  nt  white,  and  her  love- 
ly face  and  ha'.  In  as  white  as  her  dress, 
loaned  upon  Uie  strong  arm  of  Fan- 
chette,  while  htr  Koft  eyes  rested  8a<lly 
um  tho  fallen  rose-leaves  that  strewed 
tho  path. 

"  1  thought  his  love  would  have  out- 
lasted the  roses,"  she  said  as  she  gath- 
ered with  her  transparent  hand  a  fair 
bud  and  looked  at  it  sorrowfully  ;  "  but 
it  died  first,  Fanchcttc,  it  died  first." 

"  O  my  sweet  Lily  !  caimot  you  feol 
that  my  love  is  not  doad  1 "  sighed 
('laude,  wiping  away  tho  tears  that 
rolled  over  his  face,  and  striving  to 
calm  his  emotion  before  ho  addressed 
her. 

"  Let  us  rest  in  the  arbor  for  a  few 
moments;  I  am  so  tired,  dear  Fan- 
chetto,"  said  the  plaintive  voice  again. 

Claude's  heart  bciit  almost  audibly 
as  their  Bhado\^8,  lengthened  by  the 
setting  sun,  entered  before  them.  His 
eyes  foil  on  that  of  C61esto  and  fol- 
lowed it  along  the  floor  to  the  hem  of 
her  white  robe,  and  up  the  graceful 
figure  until  they  rested,  full  of  love,  on 
her  sweet  face. 

When  she  saw  him  she  stopped  on 
tho  threshold  as  suddenly  as  one  ar- 
rested by  some  vision  of  horror,  her 
eyes  dilated  with  fear,  and  her  hands 
extended  as  though  to  ward  off  his  ap- 
proach. 

"Celeste,  dearest  Celeste,"  he  cried, 
springing  toward  her,  "for  the  love  of 
God,  listen  to  me." 

For  only  one  instant  he  saw  her  white, 
terrified  face,  her  outstretched  hands  ; 
then  she  uttered  a  piercing  cry  of 
fear  and  anguish,  and,  turning,  fled  from 
him  as  though  she  wore  pursued  by 
a  fiend. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  follow  her. 


Ir  which  ho  wna 
]th(!  limvoH  and 
•MiHfid  him. 
|io  roHCM  falling 

1    tho    Hinipio 

for   fhoro    aro 

tho  roH«;H  Hocm 

■u'^    sniotu   tho 

i(J<l(.'n  puin,  and 

luH  cy<!H  UH  ho 

Lcd  out  on  tho 

inio. 

;,  und  her  lovo- 
Ito  UH  Imr  dri'SH, 
orm  of  Fan- 
es roBtcd  HiuUy 
that  Btrcwod 

ould  have  out- 
I  as  Bho  gath- 
iit  hand  a  fuir 
fully ;  "  but 
t  died  first." 
;annot  you  fcol 
Kml?"  sighed 
ho  tears  that 
nd  striving  to 
c  ho  addressed 

arbor  for  a  few 
red,  dear  Fon- 
'0  voice  again, 
almost  audibly 
thcned  by  the 
ore  them.  His 
61esto  and  fol- 
to  tho  hem  of 
ip  the  graceful 
full  of  love,  on 

iho  stopped  on 
nly  as  one  ar- 
of  horror,  her 
and  her  hands 
?ard  off  his  ap- 

?8to,"  he  cried, 
for  the  love  of 

I  saw  her  white, 
'etched  hands ; 
jrcing  cry  of 
ming,  fled  from 
'6  pursued  by 

to  follow  her. 


A  CROWN  FROM  THK  HPEAU. 


41 


Falling  back  into  a  scat  like  ono  Nniittcn 
with  |MkUv,  hu  gunpud,  "  My  (jod,  my 
(]()<t  I  It  ii4  true,  hIio  too  believes  mo 
guilty.  Have  pity  ou  mo,  and  suvu  niu 
from  myself ! " 


PART  TWELFTH. 

JCHTICR   MAKKH    A    UKMAND. 

It  was  night  before  ('laudo  aroused 
himself  from  tho  heavy  despair  that  fell 
upon  him  when  ho  know  C^leato  no 
longer  loved  him.  Tho  time  that  had 
intervened  was  a  dull  blank ;  his  head 
ached,  his  heart  throbbed  to  sufiocution, 
and  his  oycs  were  weighted  with  unshed 
tears.  Every  place  was  alike  to  him 
now,  still  ho  felt  bo  must  make  an 
effort  to  return  to  tho  ch&toau,  at  least 
ho  wished  for  tho  privacy  of  his  own 
room,  whero  ho  could  shut  out  all  but 
hia  sorrow.  Ho  arose  trembling  like 
an  old  man,  and  tottered  down  tho 
avonuo  in  tlio  direction  of  tho  gate 
that  opened  into  tho  park  of  Clonnont. 
Tho  clock  in  the  choftol  tower  struck 
tho  hour  of  nine.  Was  it  possible  so 
long  a  time  had  passed  in  a  stupor  that 
after  all  was  scarcely  suffering  but  rather 
unconsciousness  from  tho  wound  he  had 
received  t  He  felt  a  dull  conviction  that 
when  he  returned  to  his  normal  condi- 
tion the  hours  would  leave  more  pain- 
ful traces,  and  tho  moments  would  be 
marked  with  still  deeper  regrets.  He 
turned  his  gaze  upward  ;  the  serene  face 
of  the  full  moon  seemed  to  look  unpity- 
iugly  upon  him,  her  white  light  revealing 
to  the  thousand  eyes  of  night  his  haggard 
countenance  and  unsteady  gait.  Nature 
reposed  in  peace,  unmindful  of  the  tem- 
pest that  shook  his  soul ;  there  was  no 
sympathy  for  him  either  on  earth  or  in 
the  heavens.  For  the  first  time  the 
short  distance  from  the  summer  garden 
at  Monthclon  to  his  own  park  seemed 
long ;  he  was  surprised  that  it  had  not 
seemed  so  before,  when  he  had  crossed 
it  with  the  eager  heart  and  impatient 
desire  of  happy  love.  Then  his  feet 
were  winged  with  hope;" now  he  stag- 
gered under  the  burden  of  a  great  grief, 
a  burden  that  presses  as  heavily  in 
youth  as  in  age,  because  we  have  not 
learned  to  enduro,  and  our  hearts  have 


■^SB^SssSr^ss^Sss^s^ssjaas*!- 


not  betrimo  callous  by  tho  hard  rubs  of 
tune.  Tho  pitiloHS  Htrokruof  niiMl'ortune 
hnd  fullun  with  terrible  force  upon  him, 
but  hn  did  not  feel  the  HlmrpncNs  of  tho 
lash  bocauHo  of  tho  niniibnt'HH  iinnluced 
by  tho  liIoWH.  Mercifully  <J<mI  Iiuh  made 
this  proviNiou  ;  to  save  us  from  Niiddea 
nuidnuHH  he  bluntH  our  Hetmibilitien  and 
leaves  uh  time  to  recover  our  strength 
before  we  feel  tho  keenest  edge  of  tho 
M{)ear.  Even  in  the  moments  of  his 
halfHtupor  thi-i  truth  dawned  upon  tho 
mind  of  Cluiide,  and  he  repeated  to 
himself,  "  1  shall  sufl'er  more  tomorrow 
than  to-day,  and  all  my  future  will 
bo  utterly  desolate.  What  shull  I 
do  in  the  long  years  to  come]  Can 
life  bo  endured  without  hopel  Can  one 
livo  when  ho  has  lost  all  1  or  are  we  like 
saplings  that  can  bo  torn  up,  planted 
anew,  and  still  flourish?"  His  undis- 
ciplined, immature  nature  did  not  look 
beyond  at  tho  noble  possibilities  tho  fu- 
ture still  had  for  him.  He  was  no  phi- 
losopher, no  stoic,  only  a  warm-hearted 
boy,  who  )>ad  boon  until  now  as  wax  in 
the  hands  of  a  cunning  moulder.  But 
tho  rocks  must  bo  smitten  before  tho 
watoi-s  can  flow,  tho  earth  rent  asimdor 
before  her  treasures  are  found,  tho 
worthless  tree  bent,  pruned,  and  grafted 
before  it  can  bear  good  fruit.  And, 
after  all,  tho  tost  of  a  kingly  nature  is 
its  capability  of  wearing  a  crown  of  sor- 
row for  its  own  perfecting. 

There  was  an  element  in  the  charao- 
ter  of  Claude  that  none  had  discovered, 
because  tho  circinnstanccs  to  develop  it 
had  never  occurred.  But  now  the  mo- 
ment had  come  when  the  indolent, 
gentle  sotd  must  sink  under  its  accumu- 
lated misfortune,  or  call  in'o  being  tho 
latent  power  within  itself.  Great  needs 
sometimes  produce  almost  superhuman 
strength,  and  in  his  case  this  was  emi- 
nently true. 

There  was  a  narrow  shaded  avenue 
that  led  from  the  gate  across  tho  park 
and  garden  to  the  chateau.  Tho  Arch- 
deacon always  preferred  this  walk  when 
he  made  his  visits  to  Monthclon,  be- 
cause it  was  shorter,  more  retired,  and 
more  free  from  observation  than  any 
other.  Sometimes  he  walked  there  for 
hours  alone,  and  it  was  there  he 
frequently  met  P6re  Benoit  for  private 
consultations,  especially  when  they  did 


i 


I 


:i 


48 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


not  wish  to  be  seen  in  each  other's  com- 
pany. For  very  obvious  reasons  the 
priest  could  not  continue  his  visits  to 
the  chateau,  after  his  apparent  dis- 
agreement with  the  Archdeacon  in  re- 
gard to  Claude ;  so  when  they  had  any- 
thing important  to  communicate  to  each 
other,  they  met  by  appointment  in  this 
walk. 

When  Claude  wearily  opened  the  gate 
and  his  indifferent  eyes  scanned  the 
avenue,  its  length  of  shade  broken  by 
flickering  moonbeams  that  fell  through 
the  tangled  branches,  how  great  was  his 
surprise  to  see,  a  few  feet  in  advance  of 
him,  two  persons  in  earnest  but  sub- 
dued conversation.  As  he  approached 
nearer  he  recognized  in  one  the  Arch- 
deacon, and  at  the  same  moment  his 
low  but  firm  voice  fell  distinctly  on  his 
ear  :  "  Do  not  carry  your  revenge  too 
far,  he  will  demand  justice;  nothing 
can  be  proved,  he  will  be  acquitted, 
and  your  labor  will  be  lost." 

The  reply  of  the  other  Claude  did  not 
hear  distinctly,  yet  he  was  assured  that 
the  voice  was  that  of  P6re  Benoii,  al- 
though he  wore  the  slouched  hat  and 
coarse  blouse  of  a  peasant.  Fabien, 
as  if  startled  by  Claude's  footsteps, 
glanced  around,  and,  seeing  they  were 
observed,  said  a  few  hasty  words  to  his 
companion ;  then  they  separated  and 
glided  like  dark  shadows  into  opposite 
paths. 

"I  have  discovered  them  plotting," 
thought  Claude,  almost  indifferently. 
"  And  the  priest  disguised ;  what  can  it 
mean  t  But  it  does  not  matter  ;  let  them 
do  their  worst,  everything  is  ahke  to 
me  now." 

He  reached,  without  any  further  ad- 
venture, the  silence  of  his  room,  and 
throwing  himself  on  a  sofa  relapsed 
again  into  sad  thought.  A  hurried  tap 
ou  the  door  aroused  him,  and  he  said 
almost  savagely,  "  Who  comes  here  to 
disturb  tnel"  Then  he  added  in  a  more 
gentle  tone,  as  the  door  opened,  "  0,  it 
is  you,  Tristan ;  come  in." 

The  hunchback  stumbled  across  the 
floor,  and,  falling  on  his  knees,  took 
his  master's  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his 
heart,  to  show  him  how  heavily  it 
throbbed,  while  he  said  in  eager,  excited 
tones,  "  I  have  run  all  the  way  from  the 
town.     Feel  how  mv  heart  beats,  and  it 


is  for  you,  only  for  you,  it  throbs.  It 
never  stirred  for  another.  It  was  d«ad 
and  silent  until  you  spoke  to  it.  It 
loves  you  and  it  will  save  you.  They 
all  believe  you  guilty,  all,  even  the 
Archdeacon.  The  people  in  the  town, 
set  on  by  P6re  Benoit,  are  thirsting  for 
vengeance.  They  will  come  here  to- 
night and  tear  you  from  your  bed  and 
murder  you  before  my  eyes.  I  have 
been  in  the  town,  I  have  appeared  to 
join  with  them,  and  I  have  learned  their 
plans.  They  have  been  to  the  Maire 
and  demanded  your  arrest,  and  ho  has 
refused  them,  because,  he  says,  there  is 
no  evidence  that  a  murder  has  been  com- 
mitted, or  even  that  the  girl  is  dead.  But 
that  did  not  calm  them.  They  believe 
she  is  drowned,  and  that  you  threw  her 
over  the  precipice  to  be  rid  of  her,  that 
you  might  marry  Mademoiselle  Monthe- 
lon.  And  they  are  determined  to  have 
your  life.  They  will  be  here  to-night. 
They  may  come  any  moment,  and  then 
it  will  be  impossible  to  save  you.  Fly 
now,  while  there  is  time,  and  take  me  with 
you,  monsieur.  You  will  need  me,  you 
cannot  do  without  me."  This  he  added 
with  the  simplicity  of  a  child  who  be- 
lieves itself  necessary  to  those  who  love 
it,  while  he  raised  his  eyes  in  earnest 
entreaty  to  his  master's  face. 

Claude  had  started  from  his  recum- 
bent position  when  Tristan  began  to 
speak,  but  he  showed  neither  anxiety 
nor  fear  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 
hunchback's  head,  and  said  calmly, 
"My  poor  boy,  you  alarm  yourself 
needlessly.  The  people  will  not  come 
here ;  they  are  excited  and  threaten 
what  they  will  not  dare  to  do ;  and  even 
if  they  should  I  am  prepared  for  them. 
Neither  the  fear  of  death  nor  the  sting 
of  injustice  has  power  to  make  me  for- 
get for  a  moment  a  calamity  that  has 
fallen  upon  me  heavier  and  more  terri- 
ble than  either.  Indifference  robs  the 
most  painful  death  of  terror ;  and  when 
we  desire  it  we  care  not  how  it  comes, 
so  that  it  comes  and  conducts  us  to 
peace.  My  poor  friend,  do  not  weep," 
added  Claude,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
broken  only  by  the,  sobs  of  Tristan. 
"  Your  affection  soothes  a  little  my  ach- 
ing heart.  I  am  thankful  that  one  has 
remained  faithful  to  me.  I  shall  not 
fly  like  a  coward.     If  torture  and  death 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


47 


,  it  throbs.  It 
■.  It  was  d«ad 
oke  to  it.  It 
ive  you.  They 
all,  even  the 

10  in  the  town, 
re  thirsting  for 

come  here  to- 
a  your  bed  and 

eyes.  I  have 
ve  appeared  to 
,ve  learned  their 
n  to  the  Maire 
st,  and  ho  has 
le  says,  there  is 
ir  has  been  com- 
jirl  is  dead.  But 
They  believe 
t  you  threw  her 
rid  of  her,  that 
loiselle  Monthe- 
rmined  to  have 
i  here  to-night, 
ment,  and  then 

save  you.  Fly 
nd  take  me  with 

11  need  me,  you 
This  he  added 

1  child  who  be- 
>  those  who  love 
eyes  in  earnest 
B  face. 

rom  his  recum- 
ristan  began  to 
neither  anxiety 
8  hand  on  the 
d  said  calmly, 
alarm  yourself 
5  will  not  come 
d  and  threaten 
to  do ;  and  even 
tpareu  for  them. 
;h  nor  the  sting 
0  make  me  for- 
lamity  that  has 
and  more  terri- 
erence  robs  the 
irror ;  and  when 
;  how  it  comes, 
conducts  us  to 
,  do  not  weep," 
oment's  silence, 
aba  of  Tristan, 
a  little  my  ach- 
fiil  that  one  has 
e.  I  shall  not 
>rture  and  death 


come,  I  am  innocent,  and  I  shall  meet 
it  with  a  serene  heart.  Stay  by  me,  my 
boy,  until  tlic  last,  and  I  will  show  you 
that  a  Count  of  Clermont  is  not  afraid 
to  die." 

Tristan  clasped  his  master's  hand, 
and  laid  his  tear-wet  face  against  it,  and 
Claude  bent  his  head  until  his  cheek 
rested  on  tlie  shoulder  of  his  faithful 
servant.  For  a  few  moments  they  re- 
mained silent,  then  tho  hunchback 
started  up,  and  a  sudden  terror  came 
into  his  eyes  as  he  cried,  "  They  are 
coming.  I  hear  them.  I  hear  their 
shouts  and  cries.  They  are  even  now 
M'ithin  tho  park.  0  my  master,  fly,  for  the 
love  of  God !  fly,  while  there  is  time  !  " 

"  No,"  replied  Claude  firmly,  but  with 
blanched  face,  "  I  am  innocent,  and  I 
shall  remain  hero." 

His  room  was  in  the  right  wing  of  the 
ch&teau,  and  as  he  spoke  he  threw  open 
the  door  and  hurried  down  a  corridor 
that  led  to  a  gallery  overlooking  the 
main  entrance. 

It  was  true  they  had  come,  as  Tristan 
had  predicted.  The  broad  avenue  be- 
fore the  entrance  of  the  court  was  filled 
with  a  turbulent,  drunken  mob  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  shouting  and 
screaming  every  opprobrious  term  of 
their  vulgar  vocabulary.  "  Where  is 
the  young  ruffian,  the  coward,  the  se- 
ducer, the  assassin?  Where  is  hot 
Bring  him  out,  or  we  will  drag  him  out, 
the  miserable  poltroon ! " 

"  Down  with  the  nobility ! "  cried  the 
shrill  voice  of  an  old  wonan.  "  Because 
he  is  a  noble,  he  thinks  to  make  a  for- 
tress of  his  chateau,  and  drive  us  off 
with  his  dogs  of  lackeys." 

"  He  is  no  better  than  Pierre  Gar- 
net," shouted  a  hoarse  voice.  "  We 
strung  him  up  to  a  tree,  and  we  will 
serve  Monsieur  le  Comte  the  same. 
What  could  be  better  than  one  of  his 
own  trees  for  a  gallows,  and  his  own 
park  for  his  place  of  execution  ? " 

"Hang  him  over  the  precipice,  head 
downward,  on  the  spot  where  he  pushed 
the  poor  girl  off',"  piped  out  a  wizened 
old  wretch. 

"  Yes,  yes,  the  cliff,  the  cliff,  that  is 
the  place  for  him! " 

"  Bring  him  out,  bring  him  out ! " 
yelled  n,  chorus  of  voices  in  every  tone 
of  the  gamut. 


At  the  approach  of  the  mob  every 
door  and  window  had  been  closed  and 
barred,  and  every  light  had  suddenly 
disappeared.  Along  the  whole  length 
the  fa^de  of  the  chateau  now  presented 
the  dark  and  forbidding  front  of  a  prison. 
When  they  saw  this,  and  that  there  were 
no  other  means  of  effecting  an  entrance 
than  by  force,  they  rushed  furiously  for- 
ward, shouting,  "  Down  with  the  doors ! 
Down  with  the  barricades  !  " 

"  We  will  tear  the  young  whelp  from 
his  den.  We  will  show  the  nobles  that 
the  people  can  take  justice  into  their 
own  hands." 

"  Out  with  him  !  Down  with  the 
doors  !  He  is  there,  he  entered  not  an 
hour  ago." 

"  Ruffian !  Assassin  !  Coward  I  He 
will  not  show  his  face.  We  must  break 
down  the  doors  and  drag  him  out,"  cried 
the  leader,  suddenly  turning  round  on 
the  advancing  mob,  and  showing  a  pair 
of  haggard,  bloodshot  eyes  under  a 
slouched  hat. 

"Allans^  mes  mfanta.  Down  with 
the  doors." 

"  Nom  de  Dieu  I  where  is  your  cour- 
age I  Down  with  the  doors,  I  tell  you," 
shouted  the  leader  again. 

"Yes,  down  with  ^he  doors  !  "echoed 
the  chorus  of  dem<<n8,  as  they  rushed 
upon  the  massive  poHe  with  stones  and 
clubs. 

At  that  moment  a  young  voice  above 
them,  clear  and  thrilling  as  a  trumpet, 
shouted :  "  Here  I  am,  my  friends, 
spare  the  door.  I  will  come  down  to 
you,  and  give  myself  into  your  hands. 
I  am  innocent,  and  I  am  not  afraid." 

The  voice  acted  like  magic.  Every 
eye  looked  upward,  and  every  hand  with 
its  weapon  fell  as  though  it  were  power- 
less. There  was  an  appeal  in  the  slight, 
youthful  figure,  the  pale,  beautiful  face 
and  heroic  attitude,  that  might  have 
touched  the  better  nature  of  some 
among  the  furious  mob,  if  their  reason 
had  not  been  entirely  under  the  influ- 
ence of  strong  drink,  and  that  most  un- 
reasonable of  all  passions,  revenge.  As 
it  was,  only  for  a  moment  they  looked 
upward,  silent  from  surprise.  Then 
their  leader  cried  out,  with  a  voice  that 
aroused  the  worst  desires  iu  their  hearts, 
"  Cowards  !  You  are  afraid  of  a  boy  1 
Stand  back,  all  of  you,  and  I  will  entpx 


48 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


i 


alone.  I  will  avenge  the  poor  girl  he 
has  BO  foully  murdered.  He  is  a  noble, 
and  you  fear  to  touch  him.  Cowards ! 
Slaves !  Stand  back,  and  may  the 
daughters  of  every  father  among  you 
meet  with  the  same  fate  as  the  unfor* 
tunatc  he  ruined." 

When  the  speaker's  white  lips  closed 
on  the  last  word,  there  arose  a  }  ell  from 
the  crowd,  and  simultaneously  a  shower 
of  stones,  sticks,  and  dirt  hid  the  white 
face  on  the  balcony  from  the  assailants. 

Before  the  cloud  of  projectiles  had 
fallen,  a  strong  hand  grasped  Claude 
almost  savagely,  and  threw  him  within 
the  corridor,  closing  the  door  and  keep- 
ing it  closed  with  one  firm  hand,  while 
ho  held  the  other  extended  as  if  in  ben- 
ediction over  the  crowd  below.  It  was 
the  Archdeacon ;  his  face  was  calm,  but 
his  eyes  gleamed  like  fire,  and  drops  of 
sweat  stood  on  his  forehead.  "  My 
children  !  my  children  !  "  he  cried  in  a 
voice  of  strong  entreaty,  *'  listen  to  me. 
Calm  yourselves,  and  listen  to  me.  Do 
not  commit  a  crime  that  will  stain  your 
souls  forever.  What  right  have  you  to 
take  vengeance  into  your  own  hands  ? 
The  unhappy  young  man  has  never 
wrong e a  you  nor  injured  you  individu- 
ally, and  that  he  has  committed  the 
crime  you  accuse  him  of  is  in  no  man- 
ner proven.  If  he  is  guilty,  leave  him 
to  the  laws  of  your  country  and  the 
mercy  of  God.  Go  to  your  homes  like 
peaceable  citizens,  and  learn  there  that 
it  is  more  noble  to  forgive  than  to 
avenge." 

What  good  efiect  the  words  of  Fabien 
might  have  had  on  the  mob  we  cannot 
determine,  for  at .  the  moment  when  all 
were  debating  interiorly  whether  this 
was  an  access  of  Christian  generosity  and 
tenderness  on  the  part  of  the  good  Arch- 
deacon, or  a  desire  to  shield  his  ward, 
whose  innocence  he  did  not  assert,  there 
was  a  great  noise  at  the  door  against 
which  they  were  pressing,  a  drawing  of 
bolts,  a  falling  of  bars,  and  the  ponderous 
parte  was  dashed  back  on  its  hinges  by 
an  impatient  hand.  There,  on  his  own 
threshold,  face  to  face  with  the  haggard 
leader  and  his  bloodthirsty  followers, 
stood  Claude  de  Clermont,  calm  and 
fearless,  armed  only  with  courage  and 
innocence.  It  was  an  act  that  has 
found  no  record  in  the  history  of  heroic 


deeds,  and  yet  the  white-faced  moon 
that  hung  over  Clermont  has  seldom 
witnessed  a  more  resolute  and  daunt- 
less courage  than  his  as  he  stood  in  the 
presence  of  a  terrible  death.  Before 
him  gleaming  eyes,  cruel  faces,  and 
eager  hands,  behind  him  the  silent 
deserted  court,  above  him  the  priest 
imploring  them  to  pity  and  mercy.  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  God  in  fervent  suppli- 
cation for  himself,  for  Celeste.  In  that 
supreme  moment  his  thoughts  turned 
to  her,  and  he  wondered  how  she  would 
listen  to  the  story  of  his  terrible  fate. 

When  Claude  thus  suddenly  and  un- 
expectedly appeared  before  the  turbu- 
lent mob,  they  stood  silent  and  made 
no  effort  to  reach  him,  now  he  \.as  with- 
in their  very  reach.  They  had  clamored 
for  him,  they  had  demanded  him,  and 
now  he  had  given  himself  into  their 
hands,  yet  they  did  not  seize  him. 
There  was  something  in  his  face  that  re- 
pelled their  brutality,  and  no  one  dared 
to  be  the  first  to  touch  him.  The 
leader  now  seemed  more  backward  than 
the  others,  for  he  withdrew  some  paces, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  face  of  Claude, 
while  the  crowd  awaited  the  result  of 
his  inspection. 

Suddenly  a  fiendish  glare  came  into 
his  eyes,  and  as  a  tiger  springs  upon 
his  prey  the  man  sprang  at  the  throat 
of  his  victim. 

In  the  brief  moment  of  consciousness 
that  followed,  Claude  recognized  under 
the  slouched  hat  the  haggard  face  of 
Thre  Benoit.  Then  his  sight  grew  dim, 
his  breath  came  in  gasps,  and  he  fell 
heavily  on  the  stone  pavement  of  the 
court,  with  the  priest's  hands  still  clutch- 
ing his  throat,  and  his  wild  eyes  glaring 
hate  into  his. 

When  the  leader  of  the  mob  sprang 
at  Claude,  the  Archdeacon  saw  that 
something  of  greater  importance  had 
occurred  below  than  the  speech  he  was 
delivering  above,  and  divining  that  the 
rash  young  man  had  placed  himself 
again  in  jeopardy,  he  rushed  down  the 
stairs  toward  the  entrance  of  the  court, 
followed  by  the  terrified  servants. 

The  bloodthirsty  ruflfians,  eager  to 
be  in  at  the  death,  pressed  forward  into 
the  small  quadrangle,  where  the  priest 
was  struggling  with  his  victim,  uncon- 
scious of  the  sound  of  horse's  feet  clnt- 


'^SSi^aSiStm 


'idm^tmmi^ 


maii& 


i£&. 


bite-faced  moon 
ont  has  seldom 
lute  and  duunt- 
i  ho  stood  in  the 

death.  Before 
ruel  faces,  and 
him   the    silent 

him  tlie  priest 
and  mercy.  He 
n  fervent  suppli- 
;;^le8te.  In  that 
thoughts  turned 
d  how  she  would 
s  terrible  fate, 
suddenly  and  un- 
efore  the  turbu- 
silent  and  made 
now  he  w&a  with- 
hey  had  clamored 
laanded  him,  and 
mself  into  their 

not  seize  him. 
1  his  face  that  re- 
and  no  one  dared 
3uch  him.  The 
re  backward  than 
idrew  some  paces, 
he  face  of  Claude, 
ted  the  result  of 

glare  came  into 
ger  springs  upon 
mg  at  the  throat 

t  of  consciousness 
recognized  under 

haggard  face  of 
is  sight  grew  dim, 
;asp8,  and  he  fell 

pavement  of  the 
hands  still  clutch- 
i  wild  eyes  glaring 

f  the  mob  sprang 
ideacon  saw  that 
•  importance  had 
the  speech  he  was 

divining  that  the 
,d  placed  himself 
i  rushed  down  the 
ranee  of  the  court, 
led  servants, 
ruffians,  eager  to 
ressed  forward  into 
I,  where  the  priest 

his  victim,  uncon- 
jf  horse's  feet  clat- 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


49 


tering  \\p  the  avenue,  caused  by  the 
opportune  arrival  of  fifty  mounted  gen- 
darmes, followed  by  the  breathless  Tris- 
tan, who  had  run,  tumbled,  and  rolled 
all  the  way  to  the  Caserne  and  back, 
arriving  at  the  same  time  with  the 
officers. 

Never  wore  famished  and  entrapped 
wolves  captured  more  easily  tlian  the 
surprised  mob,  who  were  surrounded 
without  a  chance  of  escape  or  defence. 
In  the  consternation  they  forgot  their 
victim,  all  excepting  the  murderer,  who 
was  hitcut  on  his  work  of  vengeance, 
which  lie  would  have  accomplished  in  a 
moment  more,  had  not  a  well-directed 
blow,  from  one  of  the  ruffian's  clubs,  in 
the  hands  of  Tristan,  felled  him  to  the 
ground. 

Then  followed  a  strange  scene.  While 
the  poor  hunchback,  almost  exhausted 
from  his  etforts,  raised  and  carried  away 
the  unconscious  form  of  his  master,  the 
Archdeacon  glided  from  behind  a  pillar, 
and,  taking  up  the  lifeless  body  of  P6re 
Benoit  as  though  it  had  l)een  a  child,  he 
carried  it  through  a  small  side  door  into 
the  chapel. 

When  the  officers  reached  the  prison 
with  their  prisoners,  they  found  the 
leader  was  not  among  them,  and  every 
effijrt  to  discover  him  was  useless. 

An  hour  before  the  dawn  of  the  next 
day  a  carriage  rolled  out  of  the  north 
gate  of  Clermont  and  turned  toward  the 
sea.  In  it  reclined  the  half-unconscious 
Claude,  his  head  resting  on  the  shoulder 
of  Tristan,  and  his  cold  hands  clasped 
to  the  faithful  heart  that  would  live 
henceforth  only  for  the  beloved  life  he 
had  saved. 

When  the  servant  had  wished  to 
carry  his  master  to  his  room,  Fabien 
had  objected,  saying  that  Claude's  fu- 
ture safety  depended  on  his  immediate 
flight.  So,  weak,  powerless,  and  resist- 
less, he  was  hurried  away  from  his  own 
inheritance,  leaving  a  usurper  in  his 
place. 

Long  after,  when  the  Archdeacon  sat 
alone  in  his  study  at  Clermont,  its  som- 
bre gloom  unlightened,  its  dreary  silence 
unbroken,  he  thought  of  the  fresh 
young  voices  that  were  gone  forever, 
and  drank  with  tears  the  bitter  draught 
that  so  often  follows  the  intoxicating 
cup  of  gratified  desire  and  ambition. 
4 


PART  THIRTEENTH. 

CRUSHING   A   LILV. 

"  How  is  my  daughter  this  morn- 
ing 1 "  The  voice  of  the  Archdeacon 
was  modulated  to  the  most  exact  tone 
of  tender  interest,  as  he  took  the  slen- 
der feverish  hand  of  his  ward  in  his, 
and  pressed  a  paternal  kiss  upon  her 
white  forehead.  It  was  the  morning  after 
her  mother's  burial,  and  some  months 
after  Claude's  sudden  departure  from 
Clermont.  C61esto  was  dressed  in  deep 
mourning,  and  looked  paler  and  more 
lily-like  than  ever.  When  Fabien  en- 
tered she  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  a  pillow 
under  her  head,  and  a  tiger-skin  over 
her  feet,  while  Fanchette  sat  by  her 
side  knitting  as  usual,  only  stopping 
occasionally  to  wet  her  mistress's  hand- 
kerchief with  eau-de-cologne,  or  to  give 
her  a  grape  from  a  delicious  bunch 
of  Muscatels  that  lay  on  a  silver  dish 
near  her.  She  made  an  effort  to  rise, 
but  the  Archdeacon  waved  her  gently 
back  to  her  recumbent  position,  while 
he  took  Fanchette's  vacant  seat. 

"Did  you  rest  better  last  night  1" 
he  continued  in  the  same  bland  voice, 
"  or  were  you  troubled  again  with  un- 
pleasant dreams  ] " 

"  I  tell  Mademoiselle  her  bad  dreams 
are  caused  by  the  fever  that  comes  on 
every  night,"  interrupted  Fanchette,  as 
she  left  the  room. 

♦'  Without  doubt,"  replied  the  Arch- 
deacon, laying  his  finger  on  the  poor 
girl's  wrist.  "  There  is  but  little  fever 
now,  your  pulse  is  almost  regular." 

"  It  passed  away  with  my  wretched 
dreams,  and  w^hen  morning  comes  I 
am  so  weak  and  cold."  While  she 
spoke  she  raised  her  eyes,  unnaturally 
large,  with  a  wistfid  look  into  the  in- 
scrutable face  of  Fabien.  "  Have  you 
heard  anything  from  him  yetl"  she 
said  tremblingly,  after  a  little  silence, 
while  she  picked  with  nervous  fingers 
the  crape  of  her  black  gown. 

"Nothing,  my  daughter,  since  some 
time  ago,  when  his  effi^cts  were  sent 
after  him  to  Rennes." 

"  Oh  ! "  she  sighed  disappointedly,  "  I 
hoped  you  would  bring  ma  some  news 
this  morning." 

"  Is  it  not  another  •  proof  of  his  un- 
worthinesa  that  he  h«us  ncv«r.  written 


BO 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


to  yo»i  sinco  liis  flight,  to  ciidcavor  to 
clear  himself  from  the  crime  imputed 
to  liim  1  My  cliild,  you  thiuk  too  often 
of  Olio  who  has  wronged  you  deeply, 
and  allow  your  aft'uctious  to  dwell  on  a 
simier,  iustiud  of  fixing  them  on  Christ, 
who  B\itfered  that  you  might  have 
peace." 

"  0  my  father ! "  moaned  the  poor 
girl,  "  I  am  so  bewildered,  so  torn  to 
pieces  witli  conflicting  thoughts.  Some- 
times I  love  him  as  I  did  at  first,  and 
believe  him  innocent.  Again,  I  fnai' 
him  and  feel  C3nfident  that  ho  is  guilty. 
His  face  haunts  me  persistently.  In 
my  sleep  I  sec  him  as  1  saw  him  that 
day  in  the  simniier  garden,  palo  and 
Buifering,  or  again  he  is  struggling  with 
the  mob,  wounded,  bleeding,  dying.  If 
I  could  but  know  ho  was  alive  and  safe. 
I  fear  ho  is  dead,  or  suffering  alone,  and 
my  heart  is  breaking  because  I  ctill 
love  him."  Here  she  burst  into  sobs 
and  wept  convulsively  for  some  time, 
repeating  over  and  over,  "  0,  if  I  could 
but  forgot  his  imploring  face  ! " 

"  My  daughter,  this  grief  is  unworthy 
of  you.  Have  you  no  pride,  no  energy, 
to  shake  oft"  these  morbid  fancies,  which 
are  but  an  attack  of  nervousness  brought 
on  by  too  close  attention  to  your  dear 
mother]  Think  more  of  her  and  less 
of  this  unfortunate  young  man,  who  has 
plunged  us  all  into  sorrow." 

"  I  cannot  mourn  for  my  mother," 
replied  the  girl,  the  tears  drying  on  her 
feverish  cheek.  "She  has  suffered  so 
much  and  so  long  that  death  must  have 
been  most  welcome  to  her.  No,  I  can- 
not weep  for  her ;  she  is  happy  with 
Ood ;  would  that  I  were  with  her !  I 
am  80  tired  of  life.  0  mon  ph-e  !  I  am 
so  tired."  And  she  looked  appealingly 
at  the  Archdeacon,  as  though  she 
thoughv  he  might  direct  her  into  some 
easier  and  more  pleasant  path  than  the 
one  she  had  struggled  through  during 
the  last  few  months  of  son-ow. 

Poor  Celeste  !  there  was  nothing  fi-om 
which  she  could  gather  one  ray  of  hope 
or  consolation.  Since  the  day  when  she 
had  seen  Claude  and  Aim^e  with  hands 
clasped  bending  over  the  same  book 
life  had  changed  to  her,  all  had  become 
distorted  and  unnatund ;  one  scene  of 
deception  and  sorrow  had  followed 
another, , until  she  scarcely  knew  what 


to  believe  or  what  to  doubt.  For  in  her 
trouble  what  was  more  reasonable  than 
that  she  should  listen  to  and  confide 
in  her  guardian,  her  confessor,  tlio  holy 
man  she  had  reverenced  and  wor- 
shipped as  only  a  little  less  than  a 
saint,  who  always  met  her  with  such 
gentle  sympathy  and  cncouingei  ;ent  \ 
In  the  beginning  he  had  insinuated  his 
falsehoods  with  such  subtle  craftiness 
that  he  had  blinded  and  bewildered  the 
poor  child  until  she  was  incapable  of 
judging  for  herself,  even  if  all  had  been 
truthfully  represented  by  another. 

In  recounting  to  her  the  last  scene, 
when  Claude  was  attacked  by  the  mob, 
the  Archdeacon  had  carefully  omitted 
telling  her  of  her  lover's  heroic  conduct. 
It  would  have  been  a  consolation  for 
her  to  have  known  that  he  met  his 
assailants  bravely,  and  it  would  have 
shaken  her  not  very  firm  belief  in  his 
guilt.  But  Fabien  had  represented  him 
as  a  cowardly  criminal,  seeking  safety 
in  flight,  and  even  his  unfortunate  si- 
lence was  construed  by  the  plotter  into 
another  proof  of  his  culpability. 

When  Celeste  so  jjathetically  ex- 
pressed her  weariness  of  hfe,  the  only 
emotion  it  awoke  in  the  mind  of  the 
Archdeacon  was  one  of  satisfaction. 
She  had  now  reached  the  point  in  her 
life's  jouniey  to  which  he  had  directed 
her  with  the  deepest  interest  and  the 
most  unceasing  care.  The  Church 
opened  her  sheltering  arms  to  receive 
the  weary  child  who  physically  and 
morally  was  ready  to  fall  into  them. 
It  was  not  the  fair  feeble  girl  it  coveted, 
but  her  wealth,  that  with  her  frail  life 
was  sure  to  flow  into  its  golden  river. 

The  appealing  look  Celeste  directed 
to  her  spiritual  father  furnished  a  ques- 
tion which  he  was  most  anxious  to 
answer.  It  was  as  though  she  had 
asked,  "  Where  shall  I  flee  to  find 
peace  % "  And  gently  bending  over  her 
he  fi-ijed  his  magnetic  eyes  upon  her, 
and  said,  softly,  "The  Church,  my 
daughter,  the  holy  Church  offers  you 
a  refuge  from  the  sorrows  of  life.  Turn 
to  her ;  seek  repose  within  her  walls. 
Her  doors  are  open  to  receive  you  ;  and 
believe  me,  my  child,  the  only  true 
peace  is  found  with  those  who  entei 
and  shut  out  tho  world  forever." 

"Is  it  true,  mon  ph-e,  that  I  should 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


51 


bl)t.     For  in  her 

roasonuble  than 

to   ftud  confide 

ifessor,  tlie  holy 

Inced    luid    wor- 

tle    lesa   than  a 

her  with  such 

eneotirngci  ;cnt  i 

Id  inHinuutod  his 

iibtlc  criU'tincss 

d  bewildered  the 

Has  incn])al)Ic  of 

if  all  had  been 

by  anotiier. 

r  the  last  scene, 

Iked  by  tlic  mob, 

larefiiUy  omitted 

8  heroic  conduct. 

consolation  for 

iiat   ho   met  his 

it  would  have 

lirm  belief  in  his 

represented  him 

1,  seeking  safety 

unfortunate  si- 

thc  plotter  into 

Ipability. 

pathetically    ex- 

of  hfe,  the  only 

the  mind  of  the 

of  satisfaction. 

the  point  in  her 

>  he  had  directed 
interest  and  the 

.  The  Church 
;  arms  to  receive 

>  pliysically  and 
3  fall  into  them. 
3le  girl  it  coveted, 
with  her  frail  life 
ts  golden  river. 

Celeste  directed 
furnished  a  ques- 
most  anxious  to 
though    she    had 

I  flee  to  find 
bending  over  her 
1  eyes  upon  her, 
ho  Church,  my 
hurch  oifers  you 
ws  of  life.  Turn 
vithin  her  walls, 
receive  you ;  and 
,  the  only  true 
those  who  entei 
Id  forever." 
re,  that  I  should 


find  calm  nnd  forgetfulness  in  a  con 
vcnti"  inquired  Celeste,  with  apathy.' 
"  If  I  tlumght  so,  although  I  havo 
iiovor  fjlt  stich  an  existence  to  bo  my 
vocation,  yet,  so  weary  am  1  of  tUv 
world,  that  I  should  like  to  try  to  find 
peace  tlierc." 

"  (/an  y(<u  doubt  the  futility  of  oartli- 
ly  happiness]  You  havo  had  all, 
wealth,  youth,  and  love,  and  they  have 
only  brought  you  sorrow." 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said,  musingly,  — 
"  it  is  true ;  my  youth  and  wealth 
cctild  not  keep  his  love,  and  there  is 
nothing  else  in  life  I  value.  Why 
should  I  not  hide  my  ruined,  crushed 
heart  from  the  world  forever  1"  A 
slight  shiver  passed  over  her  as  she  said 
"forever."  "And  then,"  she  added, 
with  childlike  simplicity,  "  I  always 
thought  a  convent  such  a  cold,  hungry 
place.  But  may  I  havo  Fanchette  with 
mo,  and  a  fire  in  winter  ?  And  I  should 
not  like  to  be  obliged  to  do  many 
penances." 

The  Archdeacon  assured  her  that 
every  request  should  be  granted  that 
did  not  interfere  with  the  rules  of  the 
order ;  while  ho,  with  gentle  sophistry, 
led  her  to  fix  her  wavering  heart  on  the 
Convent  of  Notre  Dame  as  a  place  of 
refuge  for  her  weary  body  and  mind 
only  a  little  less  desirable  than  piradise. 
And  before  he  left  her  he  clearly  ex- 
torted a  promise  from  her,  that,  as  soon 
OS  her  health  was  sufHuiently  established 
to  enable  her  to  make  the  change,  she 
would  commence  her  novitiate. 

When  Fanchette  entered,  after  the 
Archdeacon  left.  Celeste  threw  herself 
on  the  faithful  bosom  of  her  only  friend, 
saying  between  her  convulsive  sobs, 
"  0  Fanchette,  I  have  promised,  I  have 
promised,  but  already  I  am  sorry.  I 
know  my  heart  will  break  sooner  here, 
where  I  can  weep  unrestrained  ;  there 
it  will  bo  a  long,  slow  life,  that  will 
feed  on  suppresstsd  emotioa  and  stifled 
passion." 

"  What  have  you  promised  1  Where 
are  you  going,  cherie  f  "  cried  Fanchette, 
looking  at  her  with  amazement. 

"  To  the  Convent  of  Notre  Dame.  I 
have  promised  P6re  Fabien  to  commence 
my  novitiate  as  soon  as  I  am  a  little 
better." 

"  To  a  convent ! "  gasped  Fanchette. 


' "  0,  my  poor,  deluded  child,  you  will 
regret  it  until  y(»ur  death" 

"  Yes,  Fanchette,  I  think  I  shall  ; 
but  one  regret  more  or  less  docs  not 
mattisr  now.  Perhafs  our  IJIossod 
•Mother  will  havo  pity  on  mn,  and  grunt 
mo  peace." 

"  I'oor  Lily,  poor  crushed  Lily  I " 
sobbed  Fiiuclictto,  stroking  the  soft 
hair  with  one  han<l,  while  she  wiped 
away  the  tears  with  the  other. 

In  the  audience-room,  at  the  ('onvcnt 
of  Notre  Dame  de  Uoucn,  ant  Fabien, 
conversing  earnestly  with  the  lady  su- 
perior, a  cunning,  sharp-eyed  French- 
woman of  more  than  sixty.  There  was 
u  sleek  atfability  in  her  manner,  an 
amiable  hypocrisy,  if  one  may  use  the 
term,  a  sort  of  wheedling  grace  and 
suavity,  that  would  have  mode  her  a 
finisiied  co:]uetto  if  she  had  not  been  an 
abbess.  At  her  advanced  age  slie  still 
retained  enough  of  power  to  make  her 
a  match  for  Fabien,  if  ono  could  judge 
from  his  expression ;  for  it  plainly  de- 
noted that,  having  argued  some  point 
long  and  well,  he  hod  not  gained  much 
vantage-ground,  although  the  lady  ab- 
be '  appeared  to  agree  with  every  opin- 
ioii    le  advanced. 

"  She  has  been  nccustomsd  to  almost 
entire  freedom  of  action  from  childhood  ; 
she  is  delicate  and  sensitive,  and  re- 
(juires  the  most  tender  care.  I  feel  the 
necessity  of  urging  this  mattor.  She 
has  never  been  separated  from  Fan- 
chette since  her  birth,  and  I  fear  she 
will  not  submit  to  it  without  rebelling." 
The  Archdeacon  said  this  with  an  em- 
phasis that  was  not  to  be  misunder- 
stood. 

"  I  regret,"  said  the  abbess,  with  a 
most  persuasive  smile  and  an  upward 
inclination  of  her  eyes,  —  "I  regret  to 
refuse  Monsoigneur  any  request,  but  the 
rules  of  our  order  will  not  permit  the 
woman  to  enter  on  any  other  conditions 
than  that  of  a  novice." 

"  I  fear,  then,  that  this  will  dis- 
arrange all  our  plans.  When  you  havo 
studied  her  as  I  have,  you  will  under- 
stand that  only  the  most  judicious  trent- 
mcnt  will  bring  about  "le  result  we 
wish  for  at  the  end  of  her  rovitiato. 
Take  care  that  by  severity  you  do  not 
disgust  her  with  a  life  she  enters  upon 
reluctantly." 


5f} 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


'*  I  iintlorstiiiul  perfectly,  moiiKci^iv 
cur,"  said  the  nlilwKH,  bldiidfy,  —  "I 
xiiidcrHtntid  itcrfoctly.  Madi'inoiscllo 
Montlu'Ion  must  ho  hiimGred  ;  indulged 
with  httle  tithits ;  favorod  with  an 
occasional  relaxation  in  our  discipline. 
Leave  it  to  nie ;  I  Iiave  hiul  great  ex- 
perience in  Bucli  matters." 

The  Archdeacon  howed  deferentially 
as  he  said,  "  I  defer,  then,  to  your  snpe 
rior  wisdom." 

*'  But  about  the  settlement,  the  gift 
as  you  please  to  call  it.  Is  she  pre- 
pared to  sign  tlie  papers  to-day,  mon- 
seigncur  1 " 

*'  Quite  ])rcpared,"  replied  the  Arch- 
deacon briskly ;  "  she  is  indifl'eront  about 
all  worldly  interests,  and  she  leaves  it 
entirely  to  mo  to  name  the  sum." 

"  Be  generous,  then,  monscigneur,  — 
bo  generous,  then,"  said  the  abbess  with 
a  seductive  smile.  "  Our  holy  Chtireh 
needs  much  for  the  good  work." 

The  Archdeacon  arose,  and  unfolding 
some  papers  that  lay  on  a  table  near 
he  looked  them  over  a  few  moments  si- 
lently. Then  he  touched  a  small  silver 
bell  and  summoned  a  nun  from  an  ad- 
joining room. 

"  Conduct  Mademoiselle  Monthelon 
into  our  presence,"  said  the  abbess 
briefly. 

A  moment  after,  the  door  opened  and 
Celeste  entered  between  two  ntms,  who 
walked  with  eyes  cast  down,  and  their 
clasped  hands  concealed  within  the  folds 
of  their  great  sleeves. 

Set  off  by  these  grim,  gaunt  figures 
the  graceful  girl  looked  still  a  lily,  but 
a  lily  drenched  with  tears  and  crushed 
by  pitiless  hands.  Her  eyes  were  red 
with  weeping,  her  long  fair  hair  disor- 
dered, and  her  childish  mouth  quiver- 
ing with  suppressed  sobs.  She  had 
wept  herself  into  apathetic  despair,  af- 
ter her  forced  separation  from  Fan- 
chette,  who,  she  learned  at  the  very  last 
moment,  could  not  remain  with  her. 

When  she  entered  the  presence  of 
Fabien,  she  felt  like  reproaching  him 
with  his  broken  faith  ;  but  he  came  for- 
ward to  meet  her  with  so  much  kind- 
ness and  such  gentle  interest  that  she 
forgave  him  and  felt  reassured. 

"  My  daughter,  are  you  ready  to 
sign  the  deed  of  your  gift  to  our  holy 
Church  1"  ,         . 


I      "Yes,  my  father,"  she  replied  in  a 
i  low  voice,  without  raising  Ikt  eyes  to 
the  face  of  the  abbess,  whom  she  already 
instinctively  disliked. 

"  Our  Holy  Mother  will  bless  you,  my 
child,  for  returning  to  her  ('hurch  tho 
treasures  she  has  lent  you.  (Jive  your 
heart  to  her  as  freely  as  you  give  of 
your  wealth,  and  you  will  tind  cKcccd- 
ing  peace  on  earth,  and  a  ';rown  of 
joy  in  heaven.  "Youtli,  beauty,  and 
wealth  are  a  sacrifice  truly  acceptable 
to  our  holy  Church,  but  of  how  much 
more  value  is  the  weary  bleeding 
heart  you  lay  at  the  feet  of  otir  com- 
passionate Mother.  My  child,  your 
early  renunciation  of  the  follies  of  the 
world  show  that  you  have  been  chosen 
by  our  Lord  as  his  bride.  What  inex- 
pressible lionor  and  happiness  to  be  thus 
distinguished  by  his  Divine  favor." 

Celeste  stood  during  the  short  ad- 
dress of  the  abbess,  with  bent  head 
and  folded  hands.  Whether  she  heard 
and  understood  it  was  impossible  to  de- 
cide, for  her  face  gave  no  sign  of  emo- 
tion even  when  the  speaker  clasped  her 
clawlikc  hands  in  ecstasy,  and  turned 
up  her  eyes  until  only  the  whites  were 
visible. 

Fabien  tapped  the  table  with  his  pen, 
and  seemed  impatient  to  have  the  sig- 
nature of  (Celeste  lather  than  the  re- 
marks of  the  abbess. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  read  the  deed  of 
gift,  my  daughter]"  he  inquired  after 
the  abbess  and  the  two  nims  had  re- 
peated a  J)co  f/ratias,  and  crossed  them- 
selves devoutly. 

"  No,  my  father,  I  have  no  wish  to 
read  it.  The  contents  of  the  paper 
have  no  interest  for  me."  She  took  the 
pen  from  the  fingers  of  the  Archdeacon, 
and  with  one  sweep  of  her  thin  white 
hand  signed  away  to  the  Convent  of 
Notre  Dame  de  Rouen  a  large  portion 
of  the  wealth  her  fathe'  had  toiled  for 
years  to  accnmulate.  Then  she  turned 
silently,  and  making  r  reverence  to  the 
abbess  and  to  the  Archdeacon  she  left 
the  room  as  she  had  entered,  walking 
between  the  two  nuns.  At  the  door 
they  were  met  by  a  tall,  noble-looking 
girl,  with  blue  eyes,  brown  hair,  and  the 
fresh  complexion  that  denotes  English 
blood,  who  laid  her  strong  white  hand  on 
the  shoulder  of  Celeste,  and  said  in  a 


1. 


•Miimmitm 


mumiti-itt 


a: 


ilio  rcpliotl  in  a 
iiiij»  lu;r  eyes  to 
hom  alio  already 

ill  bless  you,  my 
her  ('hurch  tho 
oil.     <ilivo  your 
RH  you  givo  of 
will  find  cxcocd- 
nd    a  '.'rown  of 
til,   beauty,   and 
truly  acceptable 
lit  of  how  much 
weary    bleeding 
feet  of  our  com- 
My    child,    your 
the  follies  of  the 
have  been  chosen 
ide.     What  incx- 
ppincHs  to  lie  thus 
ivine  fuvor." 
g  the    short   ad- 
with   bent  head 
hether  she  heard 
imposHJblo  to  de- 
no  sign  of  emo- 
eakcr  clasped  her 
itasy,  and  turned 
the  whites  were 

able  with  his  pen, 
to  have  the  sig- 
ther  than  the  re- 
read the  deed  of 
he  inquired  after 
wo  nuns  had  re- 
lod  crossed  them- 

havo  no  wish  to 
its  of  the  paper 
e."  She  took  the 
f  the  Archdeacon, 
)f  her  thin  white 

the  Convent  of 
n  a  large  portion 
ic"  had  toiled  for 

Then  she  turned 
,  reverence  to  the 
chdeacon  she  left 

entered,  walking 
8.  At  the  door 
sail,  noble-looking 
Dwn  hair,  and  the 

denotes  English 
>ng  white  hand  ou 
te,  and  said  in  a 


,    ',^ 


i 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


53 


clear, frank  voice,  "I  am  Elizabeth  Court- 
nay,  and  1  iiiu  to  occupy  the  same  dormi- 
tory witli  you.  The  abbess  wishes  us 
to  be  friends.     Shall  it  bu  so  1 " 

The  sorrow-stricken  girl  raised  her 
sad  eyes  to  the  face  that  beamed  with 
goodiicbs,  and  reading  there  truth  uud 


sympathy  she  silently  put  her  hand  in 
Elizabeth's  extended  palm,  and  the  two 
went  away  into  the  shadow  of  the  dimly 
lighted  corridor  together. 

Thus  quietly  and  sadly  the  two  wore 
united,  to  work  out  with  each  other  tho 
complex  problem  of  lifo. 


BOOK  THIED. 


SARZEAU. 


PART  FIRST. 

"the  setting  of  a  great  hope." 

"  The  scttiii;;  uf  a  great  lio|ie  is  like  the  set- 
ting; of  the  sun. 

I  DO  not  know  whether  Claude  do 
Clermont  had  ever  read  these  beautiful 
words  of  our  great  poet  in  tho  intro- 
ductory chapter  of  Hyperion,  but  cer- 
tainly it  was  the  same  thought  that 
filled  his  heart  as  he  watched  tho  sun 
drop  into  the  sea.  He  was  leaning 
upon  a  broken  rock  on  the  rugged  shore 
of  Morbihan,  his  feet  braced  against 
a  pile  of  driftwood,  and  his  hands  hidden 
in  the  deep  pockets  of  his  rough  coat. 
On  tlie  beach  by  his  side  lay  his  hat, 
with  a  gun  and  game-basket,  guarded 
by  a  great  shaggy  dog,  of  a  breed  pecu- 
liar to  Brittany.  There  was  something 
in  the  scene  and  in  the  appearance  of 
Claude  that  suggested  loneliness  and 
isolation.  His  neglected-looking  hair 
was  longer  and  less  curling  than  that 
of  the  boy  who  brushed  his  glossy  locks 
to  ploaijo  the  Lily  of  Mouthelou.  A  lux- 
uriant dark  beard  covered  the  lower 
part  of  his  face,  and  a  heavy  mustache 
with  a  melancholy  droop  shaded  his 
mouth.  His  forehead  was  almost  aa 
white  as  when  Aimee  had  compared  it 
to  a  rose-leaf;  but  a  few  faint  lines 
between  the  brows  made  it  less  smooth. 
His  eyes  were  sunken,  and  seemed 
darker  from  tho  heavy  shadows  beneath 
them ;  and  bis  straight  nose  hod  a  little 
of  tho  pinched  look  that  all  noses  have 
-.vhose  owners  have  suffered,  while  the 
lines  from   the  nostrils  to  the  mouth 


were  a  little  deeper  than  they  should 
have  been  in  one  so  young.  Outwardly, 
these  were  all  the  changes  that  five 
years  had  wrought  in  Claude  de  Cler- 
mont. Yet  ten  or  even  twenty  years 
have  passed  over  some  and  left  fewer 
traces.  There  was  strength  and  deter- 
mination in  his  attitude,  and  calm  res- 
ignation in  his  face.  Even  though  his 
hopes  had  set  as  suddenly  as  the  golden 
god  had  sunk  into  tho  sea,  extinguish- 
ing light  and  joy  in  the  glowing  morning 
of  life,  yet  his  darkness  was  not  despair, 
for  out  of  it  had  dimly  gleamed  many 
stars  of  consolation.  Is  it  not  true  that 
sometimes,  alone  and  silent  in  the  twi- 
light that  succeeds  the  setting  of  our 
sun,  angels  steal  from  the  shadows  and 
minister  to  us  until,  in  the  light  of 
heaven,  we  forget  the  earth  is  dark  ? 

The  rugged,  solitary  shore,  the  rising 
wind,  the  darkening  sea,  reflecting  the 
sod  violet  tints  of  the  clouds  that  were 
gliding  into  distance  like  the  funeral 
train  of  a  buried  king,  and  the  mourn- 
ful rhythm  of  the  waves  as  they  broke 
in  ceaseless  succession  over  the  drift- 
wood and  tangled  sea-weed  that  strewed 
the  beach,  were  all  in  harmony  w  ith  the 
spirit  of  Claude,  who  long  ago  had 
parted  company  with  the  joyous,  irre- 
sponsible, almost  effeminate  nature 
that  had  seemed  the  inheritance  of  the 
boy  at  Clermont.  Dishonored,  and  de- 
serted by  all  save  Tristan,  his  proud, 
sensitive  heart  sought  no  companionship 
with  his  equals  in  rank.  Living  a  stem, 
solitary  life,  apart  from  the  refinements 
and  luxuries  of  the  fashionable  world, 


! 


;■ 
1 


^4 


A  CROWN   FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


he  found  in  the  cvtT-vnrjing  moods  of 
nuturo  a  subject  tluit  never  wenricd  or 
grew    distusteful  to  liini-     Alono  witli 
(!nd  luiil  liis  own  soul,  ho  studied  the 
gi-eat  teiiuher  and  consoler,  and  felt  liow 
insij,'nitieaiit  and  unstaMo  arc  the  joys 
of    life,    compared   with    the    pleasure 
derived  from  conteniidiiting  the  immov- 
able hills,  the  fn-m  mountains,  the  im- 
mensity  of  the   overhanging   heavens, 
the  regular  sueeession  of  the  sun,  moon, 
and  stars,  the  infinity  of  space,  and  the 
profoun<l  depths  of  the  ocean,  with  its 
fretting,  heaving  surface  always  subdued 
and    restrained   by   the    unchangeable 
laws    of    the    great    Conti-oUer.     And 
these  all  taught  him  that  the  Divine 
Architect  who  perfected  this  grand  and 
noble   plan  did  not  intend  that   man, 
his     m(>8t    excellent    creation,    should 
fritter  away  life  in  frivolity  and  vanity  ; 
that   the  sublimity  of  nature  was  not 
spread   before   him   simply   to    gratify 
a  taste,  or  minister  to  a  passion,  but  to 
lead  his  soul  onward  and  upward  to  the 
infinite   and  eternal   perfection  of  the 
hereafter.     He  had  learned  early  that 
happiness  is  not  to  Ihj  found   in  the 
outward  surromidinga  nor  in  the  petty 
pleasures  of  life,  but  within  ourselves, 
developed  and  strengthened  by  a  love 
of  God  and  his  glorious  works. 

There  are  some  natures  that  strive 
to  lull  the  pain  of  disappointment  and 
regret  with  an  opiate  distilled  from  the 
dregs  of  sensual  pleasure;  to  stifle  its 
complainings  with  the  clashing  and 
jangling  strife  of  their  fellow-sufTerers, 
madder  and  more  restless  than  them- 
selves. Alas  for  these  poor  sonls ! 
their  stupor  ends  in  a  terrible  niglit- 
inare,  from  which  they  awaken  smitten 
and  blasted.  There  are  others  who, 
because  of  some  noble  germ  of  strength 
and  faith  within  themselves,  rise  supe- 
rior to  the  strokes  of  misfortune.  Look- 
ing Fate  unflinchingly  in  the  face,  and 
meeting  sorrow  with  heroic  resignation, 
they  lay  hold  of  the  firm  rock,  lifting 
their  eyes  npward  to  the  summit  where- 
on stands  the  Smiter.  The  foundation 
may  shake  imder  them,  they  may  be- 
come weary  of  clinging,  the  sands  may 
slip  from  beneath  their  feet,  but  still 
they  hold  fast  to  God. 

If  one   had  asked  Claude  to  define 
his  faith,  to  explain  whence  came  the 


calm  and  strength  with  which  ho  met 
his  miblbrtunos,  pcrhajjs  he  would  not 
have   said    that   ihuy   came   from   the 
Fatlicr  of  all  good  ;  for  the  young  man, 
although  cdiuated   by  a   guardian   of 
souls,  had  received  but  very  little  relig- 
ious instruction,  and  that  hail  not  been 
of  a  kind  to  awaken  feelings  of  nmiple 
faith  and  trust  in  God.     Thcr-fore  it  is 
likely  he  would  have  replied,  "  I  derive 
my  peace  and  consolation  from  nature." 
Still,  like  many  of  us,  unconsciously  he 
worshipped    God    through   his    blessed 
creation.     His  thoughts,  as  he  watched 
the  light  fade  from  the  west   beyond 
the  h)ncly  shore  of  Morbihan,  cxi)rcK8cd 
in  words,  were  these  :  "  The  Sun  dies  in 
the  sea,  and  Night  drops  her  pall  over 
his  grave  ;  the  dews  fall  like  tears  ;  the 
wind  sighs  and  moans ;  the  Ocean  heaves 
and    frets,  her  bosom   convulsed   with 
sobs  ;  the  sea-birds  wail  out  their  grief, 
then  fold  their  wings  and  droop  into 
silence.     All  nature  sorrows,  but  it  is  a 
calm,  subdued  sorrow  j  there  is  no  rebel- 
lion, no  opposing,  no  complaining.     It 
is  God's  decree  that  his  sun  should  set 
each   day,   and    therefore   all   creation 
submits  to  be  hidden  in  darkness.     It 
is  also  God's  decree  that  our  suns  should 
set,  yet  wo  are  not  patient ;   we  mur- 
mur and  moan,  and  weep  hot,  angry 
tears;   we    strike    in   impotent    wrath 
against  a  wall  of  adamant,  and  cry  out 
in  our  anguish  that  the  darkness  of  our 
prison  is  too  intense ;  we  are  maddened, 
crushed,  wounded,  and  almost  dead  from 
our  useless  resistance ;  and  yet  we  will 
not   accept   the   lesson   of   submission 
taught  us  by  nature.     The  brutes  are 
wiser  than  wo ;  they  lie  down  and  rest 
quietly  until  the  night  is  passed  ;  they 
know  the  day  will  dawn  again,  and  do 
not  we  also]  and  yet  we  will  not  w.iit. 
It  is  five  years,  five  long  yeans,  -i  oe  my 
sun  set,  and  still  there  is  no  i^romiso  of 
dawn."     He  raised  his  eyes  upward  to 
the  arch  of  God  over  which  were  sown 
the  diamonds  of  the  night,  and  a  gentle 
smile  softened  a  little  the  stern  sadness 
of  his  face  as  he  said,  "Why,  already 
there  are  stars ;  even  while  wo  wait  for 
morning,   light    beams  upon   us  from 
heaven."  Then,  stooping,  he  took  his  hat 
from  under  the  dog's  paw,  saying,  "Come 
Ixus,  poor  Tristan  will  be  tired  of  wait- 
ing for  us." 


j.iJwM 


MaiiiiriiMiiBHirMiiiiiiaM 


t'l' 


IC 


which  ho  met 

he  would  nut 

iiiiio   IVdin   tlio 

the  young  man, 

a   giiardiun    of 

very  little  lelig- 

it  hail  not  liodi 

uliii^s  of  Hiinpio 

TliLi'jlorc  it  \» 

)lit(l,  "  1  tlerivo 

II  from  nature." 

ncoiiHuionHly  lie 

1    hia    bltsHcd 

aH  ho  watclicd 

west   beyond 

)ihnn,  exj)icK8cd 

The  Sun  dies  in 

ps  her  jnill  over 

like  teara ;  tho 

he  Ocean  Iicavcs 

convulsed   with 

I  out  their  grief, 

and  droop  into 

rows,  but  it  is  n 

;here  is  no  rcbcl- 

joniplaining.     It 

3  sun  should  set 

ure   all   creation 

in  darkness.     It 

:  our  suns  should 

itient ;   wo  niur- 

veep  hot,  angry 

impotent    wrath 

ant,  and  cry  out 

I  darkness  of  our 

0  arc  maddened, 
Almost  (lead  from 

and  yet  wo  will 

1  of    submission 
The  brutes  arc 

0  down  and  rest 

is  passed ;  they 
n  again,  and  do 
to  will  not  wait. 
y  years,  'i. corny 
is  no  ^^romiso  of 

eyes  upward  to 
vhich  were  sown 
!;ht,  and  a  gentle 
;ho  stern  sadness 

"  Why,  already 
■hilo  wo  wait  for 

upon  us  from 
;,  he  took  his  hat 
V,  saying,  "Como 
be  tired  of  wait- 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


B5 


The  dog  started  »ip  as  though  rc- 
lievrd  from  duty,  and  looking  wistfully 
in  his  master's  faco  ho  said,  as  plain- 
ly as  a  dug  could  say,  "  I  am  ready  to 

go." 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Claudo,  patting 
him  atlectiouately,  "  you  arc  tired  and 
luuigry,  wo  havo  been  away  since  early 
morning." 

Ixus  wagged  his  tail  approvingly,  and 
taking  tho  almost  empty  game-basket 
in  his  mouth,  ho  started  oft'  at  a  brisk 
trot,  h)oking  back  now  and  then  encour- 
agingly at  iiis  master,  who  did  not  seem 
to  sharo  his  impatience. 

While  Claudo  walks  thoughtfully  over 
the  dreary  road  that  leads  from  Morbi- 
han  to  Sarzeati,  wo  will  give  a  brief 
sketch  of  the  five  youra  that  have  passed 
since  tho  dreadful  night  when  ho  left 
Clermont  with  only  the  poor  hunchback 
for  his  companion.  For  several  weeks 
after,  ho  had  lain  ill,  almost  unto  death, 
in  a  little  uncomfortable  inn  at  Ilenncs, 
where  ho  had  been  cared  for,  day  and 
night,  by  tho  faithful  Tristan,  who 
watched  over  him  with  tho  unwearying 
devotion  of  a  mother.  Ho  had  moaned 
and  tossed  with  fever,  and  raved  and 
struggled  with  delirium ;  acting  over 
and  over  tho  dreadful  scene  with  tho 
mob  ;  pleading  with  Celeste  ;  deploring 
the  imhappy  fate  of  Aim6o  ;  expostidat- 
ing  with  the  Archdeacon,  urging  in  tho 
most  earnest  manner  his  innocence, 
while  he  heaped  bitter  words  of  indig- 
nation and  contempt  on  his  enemy,  P6re 
Benoit.  The  tender  heart  of  tho  poor 
hunchback  felt  all  his  master's  pain  and 
distress ;  with  the  gentleness  of  r  wo- 
man he  pillowed  Claude's  head  upon  his 
breast,  soothing  him  into  calm,  or  held 
him  with  superhuman  strength,  when, 
raving  with  delirium,  he  would  havo 
injured  himself  in  his  imaginary  con- 
flicts with  P6re  (k-aoit,  receiving  with- 
out complaint  the  blows  dealt  by  tho 
unconscious  young  man  with  a  force 
that  only  insanity  gives. 

When  the  sufferer's  strength  was  ex- 
hausted, and  ho  was  worn  out  by  his 
violent  emotions,  Tristan  would  lull  him 
into  calm  as  a  mother  does  a  child,  say- 
ing pityingly,  while  his  tears  fell  on  the 
wan  face,  "  Poor  child,  poor  child,  why 
cannot  thy  miserable  servant  sjiffer  in- 
stead of  thee  1    Thy  poor  Tristan  would 


willingly  give  his  worthless  life  to  save 
thco  tVom  pain." 

At  length  tho  feverish  tide  ebbed  and 
flowed  more  slowly,  and  tho  t-xhaiistod 
spirit  ceased  to  wrestle  with  its  imagi- 
nary foes.  Tiien  followed  Imig,  weary 
days  of  convalescence,  when  Claude  lay 
like  an  infant,  too  weak  to  be  conscious 
of  what  had  preceded  the  lunguor  ami 
inditferenco  he  now  felt.  Ik-yond  his 
window  he  saw  distant  hills  and  a 
thread  of  tho  blue  Vihiiiio  winding 
among  peaceful  meadows,  white  floating 
clouds,  and  birds  circling  on  idle  wings, 
on  which  ho  gazed  dreamily  for  hours. 
.Sometimes  ho  s|x>ko  to  Tristan,  calling 
him  Cdleste,  or  Aimee,  believing  himself 
to  be  at  Clermont,  lying  under  the  pines, 
listening  with  drowsy  ear  to  their  mys- 
terious murmura,  or  gathering  rose- 
buds for  the  girls  in  the  summer  garden 
at  Monthelon.  One  moniiug  he  knew 
that  health  and  strength  were  returning, 
because  a  clear  recollection  of  his  trou- 
ble cume  upon  him,  and  his  heart  was 
full  of  the  old  pain. 

"  Bring  rao  some  paper  and  a  pen, 
Tristan,"  ho  cried  ;  "  I  must  write  to  tho 
Archdeacon." 

The  hunchback  supported  him  while 
ho  laboriously  wrote  a  few  lines,  which 
would  havo  touched  a  heart  alive  to  any 
feeling  of  pity,  so  mournftdly  appealing 
were  they,  so  eloquent  with  physical 
weakness  and  mental  suffering.  Ho 
implored  Fabien  with  earnest  entreaty 
to  send  him  some  news  of  Celeste  ;  to 
make  some  efforts  to  establish  tho  inno- 
cence which  ho  trusted  his  father's 
friend,  his  own  patient  teacher,  his  con- 
fessor and  guardian  from  childhood, 
was  now  convinced  of.  Ho  told  him 
briefly  of  his  illness,  and  his  near 
approach  to  death,  and  how,  for  the 
sake  of  his  honor  and  his  lovo  for 
Celeste,  he  would  struggle  back  to 
life,  and  ended  by  entreating  his  as- 
sistance and  blessing.  After  weeks  of 
impatient  waiting  and  restless  expecta- 
tion, an  answer  reached  him,  written  in 
the  coldest,  tersest  language.  The 
Archdeacon  passed  over  in  silence  his 
earnest  inquiries  in  regard  to  Celeste's 
welfare,  and  ignored  all  claims  upon  his 
confidence  and  affection,  but  advised 
him  not  to  return  to  Clermont,  as  the 
belief  in  his  guilt  was  as  strong  as  ever, 


i. 


i 


T"- 


0« 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


nnd  that  ho  vtan  Rtill  in  daiiKcr  of  p<>r- 
Hoiinl  vioK'iicu  ;  tliiit  until  tho  body  o( 
Aini<>o  wan  discovered  thero  wua  no 
proof  of  Iter  deiitli  on  whicli  to  found  ti 
judiciid  exiiniiniition,  and  thiit  ho  must 
uouHider  till  relation  with  MiidunioiHullo 
Montheloii  pennaiiently  ended.  It  wuh 
her  untdtenililo  decision  na  well  as  her 
wish  timt  M.  lu  C'onito  do  Clermont 
shouM  not  disturb  her  pence  of  mind 
by  writiu;;  to  her,  us  she  was  fully  con- 
vincetl  of  his  K"ilt,  nn<l  therefore  looked 
niMtn  him  with  horror.  Tears  of  an- 
fXuish  dimmed  tho  eyes  of  C'luudo,  ho 
that  hv  could  scarcely  read  tho  formal 
unnouncoment  at  tho  end,  that  his  per- 
sonal eHects  would  follow  the  letter, 
ami  that  all  orders  would  bo  received, 
nnd  all  remittances  sent,  through  his 
banker,  M.  Lefond,  No.  3  Uuo  des  Bons 
Enfants,  Itouen. 

"  And  so,"  he  said  bitterly  as  ho  fold- 
ed tho  letter,  —  "  nnd  so  Monscignour 
cuts  mo  off  coldly  and  decisively  from 
uny  further  communication  with  him. 
This  is  tho  man  to  whom  my  dying  fa- 
ther left  mo  as  a  sacred  trust ;  this 
plotting  hyjKicrito,  this  double-faced 
usurper  of  tho  rights  of  guardianship, 
not  only  of  tho  bodies  but  of  tho  souls 
of  men.  Ho  and  I'cro  Benoit  have  in- 
trigued agixinst  me,  for  what  end  only 
(»od  knows  ;  they  aro  both  my  enemies, 
and  aro  longucd  together  to  ruin  me. 
And  tho  melancholy  fate  of  poor  Aim(!o 
has  put  a  chance  into  their  hands  to  use 
against  mo.  What  does  it  all  moan  1 
I  have  never  injured  them,  and  yet 
they  display  a  hate  that  seems  like  re- 
venge for  some  terrible  wrong.  They 
have  succeeded  in  blighting  my  life ; 
they  have  separnted  me  from  Celeste  ; 
they  have  stained  mo  with  an  odi- 
ous crimo ;  they  have  instigwted  a 
vilo  mob  to  drive  mo  from  my  inheri- 
tance ;  and  all  is  now  left  to  the  entire 
control  of  this  man,  who  is  my  legal 
guardian.  For  two  years  more  I  must 
endure  it,  tor  two  years  more  he  will 
hold  my  rights,  my  fate,  my  property, 
nil  in  his  dishonest  hands ;  and  I  have 
no  redress,  for  it  was  my  father  who 
fettered  mo  with  such  heavy  chains. 
Ah,  why  had  he  not  discernment 
enough  to  understand  the  character  of 
the  man  to  whom  he  intrusted  the  wel- 
fare of  his  child  ! "         .,  . ,  .    -nitf^ 


Long  nnd  sadly  Claudo  thought  of 
the  drcadfid  complications  that  sur- 
rounded him,  and  out  of  which  he  saw 
no  issue.  Thero  was  no  one  to  whom  he 
coidd  ap))ly  for  nid.  The  legal  u<lviser 
and  tho  old  and  tried  friend  of  his  father 
hntl  died  a  few  years  before ;  ami  ho 
well  knew  that  there  was  not  one  ad- 
ministrator of  justice  in  all  Itouen  who 
did  not  believe  in  the  Archd'mcon,  so 
entirely  had  he  won  tho  contidonco  and 
osteeuk  of  the  community. 

"  And  BO,  Tristan,"  ho  said  at  last, 
"  wc  are  not  to  return  to  Clermont. 
Monseigneur  has  given  mc  permission 
to  remain  away  as  long  as  I  please.  But 
you,  Tristan,  my  dear  boy,  ytju  must  go 
to  Monthclon  for  mo ;  for  until  I  am 
stronger  I  can  do  nothing,  and  I  must 
get  a  letter  to  Mademoiselle  Celeste, 
and  there  is  no  one  else  I  can  trust  to 
carry  it  but  you,  and  you  must  promise 
me  to  give  it  into  her  own  hands.  Do  not 
try  to  get  admitted  into  tho  ch&teau, 
but  watch  for  her  in  tho  grounds,  and  if 
you  seo  her  for  a  moment  alone  give  it 
to  her,  unobserved,  if  possible.  Can  I 
trust  you,  Tristan  1 " 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  you  can  trust  me. 
If  it  is  possible  for  mc  to  see  Mademoi- 
selle Mouthelon  she  will  got  tho  letter. 
But  if  I  cannot  see  her  1 " 

"  Bring  it  back  to  me.  It  is  no  use 
to  give  it  to  any  other  person,  for  in 
that  ca.so  I  am  convinced  that  she  will 
never  sec  it." 

We  are  soiry  to  say  that  Tristan 
failed  in  his  mission.  After  hanging 
about  Monthelon  for  more  than  a  week, 
he  learned  that  Madeinoisello  never  left 
the  house ;  her  mother's  increasing  ill- 
ness and  her  own  feeble  health  kept  hor  a 
prisoner.  Still  Tristan  lingered,  hoping 
he  might  be  favored  in  some  unexpected 
way,  and  unwilling  to  return  to  his 
master  unsuccessful.  One  day  when  ho 
sat  under  the  south  wall  in  the  simimer 
garden  sunning  himself,  nnd  indulging 
in  the  pleasant  belief  that  tho  bright 
warm  day  would  tempt  the  invalid 
out,  Jacques  suddenly  appeared,  leading 
tho  great  watch-dog  that  was  usually 
chained  at  the  lodge.  Touching  his 
hat  to  Tristan  with  ironical  politeness, 
and  pointing  to  his  dumb  companion,  ho 
said  impressively,  "  Afoji  ami,  you  have 
no  wish  to  make  the  acquaintanco  of 


11 « 


MaMnanS^ii- 


rlo  thought  of 
oiiH   tlint   Hur- 

whicli  he  hhw 
iiu  to  whom  hu 

1ci;itl  u<lviHcr 
il  of  Ilia  father 
ot'oru ;  iintl  lio 
not  uno  u(l- 
II  Uoucn  who 
\rcli(l'.;iicon,  so 
cuntiduiico  unci 

Raid  at  Inst, 

to  Clermont. 

me  penniHHioi) 

I  pleaHc.    But 

y,  yow  must  go 

or  until  I  am 

ng,  and  I  must 

Disello  Celeste, 

I  can  trust  to 

I  must  promise 

hands.    Do  not 

o  the  ehfitcau, 

grounds,  and  if 

it  alone  give  it 

)ssiblc.     Can  I 

can  trust  me. 

0  see  Mademoi- 
get  the  letter. 

i.  It  is  no  uso 
•  person,  for  in 
d  that  she  will 

Y  that  Tristan 
After  hanging 
re  than  a  week, 
lisello  never  left 
8  increasing  ill- 
ealth  kept  her  a 
ingercd,  hoping 
omo  unexpected 
return  to  his 
ne  day  when  he 
.  in  the  summer 
,  and  indulging 
that  the  bright 
pt  the  invalid 
ppeared,  leading 
lat  was  usually 
Touching  his 
uical  politeness, 
b  companion,  ho 

1  ami,  you  have 
icquaintanco  of 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPKAR. 


87 


Oronot's  tenth,  have  youl  They  arc 
strong  and  Hharp,  and  they  gnaw  horri- 
bly.     Com/trrnf:  ?  " 

Poor  'I'riHtan  did  not  undei'stand  at 
first,  but  iu  a  moment  tlic  truth  flushed 
ii|K>n  liiiu  ;  as  ho  hud  no  desire  to  be 
liorribly  giiuwcd,  ho  cost  a  pitifully  re- 
proaeiii'ul  look  at  J:ic(iuoh  and  hobbled 
nway  towiinl  the  gate  as  (juiekly  as  pos- 
sible. Tlu;  huuchbaek  was  no  Don 
Quixote,  and  so  lie  did  not  court  advou- 
turo.  He  liiul  a  deformed,  feeble  body, 
but  a  large,  tender,  faithful  heart,  that 
would  have  served  his  master  oven  to 
dentil,  if  his  death  could  have  made 
him  ha])i)y,  and  withal  some  sound 
sense  and  caution  that  told  him  in 
such  an  encounter  ho  would  bo  worsted, 
and  to  no  gowl ;  so  he  considered  a  hasty 
retreat  the  better  part  of  valor. 

On  his  way  back  to  llenncs  he  trem- 
bled and  wept  like  a  child.  Ho  trembled 
to  think  of  Grenct's  sharp  teeth  and 
ferocious  looks,  for  ho  was  so  sensitive 
that  ho  fancied  ho  felt  his  flesh  quiver 
in  the  jawa  of  tho  horrid  brute.  And 
he  wept  to  think  of  his  dear  master's 
disappointment,  and  his  own  failure  in 
his  first  commission  of  importance. 
Then  ho  thought  of  the  cruelly  of 
Jacques,  and  wondered  why  God  gave 
such  wicked  men  power,  and  such  sav- 
ago  brutes  sharp  teeth  to  gnaw  the 
innocent. 

Claude  was  terribly  disappointed  and 
indignant  at  Tristan's  unkind  reception, 
but  still  not  quite  disheartened.  After 
a  little  time,  he  wrote  to  Fanchctte, 
and  enclosed  a  letter  for  Celeste,  ini- 
I)loring  the  woman  to  deliver  it  to  her 
mistress.  Not  long  after,  it  was  re- 
turned, with  a  few  lines  from  Fanchetto, 
saying  she  dared  not  comply  with  his 
re(iues( ,  as  slio  had  received  ordciu  from 
the  Archdeacon  not  to  deliver  any  letters 
until  ho  had  seen  them.  1'ho  short 
note  was  concluded  in  such  terms  as  to 
leave  a  little  hope  that  the  woman 
would  not  be  invulnerable  to  a  bribe. 
So  ho  wrote  again,  promising  her  a 
large  sum  of  money  if  she  would  deliver 
the  letter.  But  this  tempting  offer 
came  too  late,  for  it  came  the  day  after 
Celeste  had  entered  the  Convent  of 
Notre  Dame.  Fanchette,  her  heart 
torn  by  tho  cruel  parting  from  her  be- 
loved miutress,  wrote  a  long  epistle  in 


j  reply  ;  pouring  out  tho  vials  of  h*>r 
wnitli  u|M>u  the  siheming  hosids  of  tho 
.Vrchlcacon  mil  I'ero  Hcnoit,  whom  sho 
styled  nivt'uoiis  wolves  in  slieeji's  chith- 
ing.  M  last  her  eyes  were  opon,  but 
it  was  too  late  to  save  her  beloved  lady 
from  her  living  death. 

This  was  a  tcrriltio  blow  to  Claude, 
entire  ruin  to  his  ho|H's  ;  from  that 
moment  he  felt  that  be  had  no  aim  in 
life,  no  desire  to  ac(|uit  himself  beforo 
tho  world.  Celeste  was  iu  reality  tho 
world  ho  desired  to  convincu  ;  she  was 
lost  to  him,  and  with  her  all  humanity. 
Itesiguation  and  calm  di*l  not  come  to 
him  at  once.  There  were  times  when 
his  strength  failed  him,  and  he  wept, 
and  moaned,  and  refused  food,  and 
fretted  through  the  long  nights,  until 
Tristan  thought  he  would  die.  Then 
there  were  pitiful  heart-breaking  scenes 
between  tho  two,  when  tho  servant  im- 
plored tho  master  to  live  for  him,  and 
tried  in  his  simple,  innocent  way  to 
show  him  that  life  still  had  duties,  if 
not  joys.  Cl.'Uido  would  weep  on  his 
neck,  and  promise  him  to  stand  ui)right 
under  tho  burden  when  he  had  gained 
ft  littlo  strength  with  tinio.  "  Now," 
ho  would  say,  "  I  am  weak,  and  it 
crushes  mo  down ;  by  and  by,  Tristan, 
1  shall  be  a  littlo  strongei,  and  then  I 
will  show  }ou  that  I  can  bear  my  mis- 
fortunes like  a  man."  Gradually  time 
blunted  tho  keen  odgo  of  tho  spear  that 
pierced  his  heart ;  then  his  wounds 
ceased  to  bleed,  and  tho  tears  ho  shod 
cooled  the  fever  of  hia  brain.  Ho  grow 
calm  and  silent ;  and  with  this  calm 
came  an  indifference,  a  lack  of  interest, 
a  lassitude  of  tho  soul,  which  it  was  more 
difficult  to  shake  off  than  it  had  been 
to  subdue  his  complaining  sorrow.  He 
wandered  alwut,  careless  and  aimless ; 
living  in  tiio  most  simple  fashion,  with 
no  other  companion  than  Tristan. 

Nature  effects  her  mental  cures  much 
in  tho  same  way  as  sho  docs  her  jihys- 
ical ;  passing  through  the  various  gra- 
dations, from  the  crisis  to  full  li*'ulth. 
The  mind  has  its  period  of  con -altK- 
cence  the  same  as  does  tlio  Iwdy  ;  it 
may  bo  longer  and  more  t"dions,  but  it 
ends  in  perfect  restoration,  after  much 
patient  endurance.  It  was  a  slow 
process  with  Claude  ;  for  after  tlio  apa- 
thetic   calm  came   tho  restless   desire 


It 


bA 


A  CROWN   FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


T 


1 
: 


to    nc('oi)i|iliHh    iiliUDNt    irnfH)HMil>ilitioH. 
Kur  iiiiiic  tliiiii  two   vt'iird  Im'  livcil  in 

till)  lll.ilotn  of  tlu'  hll('|ill('l(|H  UIIIOII^  tlic 

I'yri'iii'CM  ;  t'xiildiiii;^  tlio  dfiiurtiiu'iitN 
of  tliu  liiiiiti-  (iuruiiiio,  Arie^i',  iiiid 
Aiiilc.  lit*  ni'iiIimI  till'  (liiii({('roUH  lioi^'iitH 
of  Muiit  iV'i'ilii,  uihI  the  lioiiry  Maju- 
«letlu.  He  vvaiiili'icil  unions  liio  piat- 
licnlrt  oil  tlic  (Iri'iicy  MttcpN  of  Lum 
Nei'iiulas.  Ho  lonked  from  Riilaiid's 
Hivatli  at  tliii  touiiM  of  Marliori'  ;  and 
listened  to  tliu  I'liar  of  tliu  waterfullH, 
nnd  the  craHh  of  the  avaianclieH  aninn^r 
the  peukH  of  tho  Vi^jnemule.  lie  felt  a 
■av  ,0  Hort  of  enjoynu'iit  in  Htandin^' 
fur  nl)ovo  the  world,  -  hunuinity  at  liiH 
feot,  the  creiitiiies  who  had  ho  wronj^ed 
him  far  beneath  him,  und  (iod'H  heaven 
nlunu  above  him.  There,  HnHpended,  im 
it  were,  Iwtwoen  earth  und  nky,  ho  held 
tho  cloHeHt  conmniniun  with  hiH  own 
Moul  ;  the  ilee|)eNt,  holiest  feelinjrs  of  his 
iiatnre  expanded  like  leavcu  bathed  with 
tho  dewH  of  heaven.  Tho  tangled 
throiidH  of  life  Meemod  to  imrnvel,  and 
clear  thenmelveH  from  all  confusion. 
And  for  tho  first  time  hu  understood 
tho  lofty  intent iouH  of  hiii  (Jroutor. 
"  i.ifc  wiw  not  given  us  only  for  self- 
grutiliciition,"  ho  would  say;  "each  om 
should  try  to  aid  thoso  who  need  aid, 
and  raise  up  those  who  have  fallen. 
AVhat  a  nol)Io  ambition  to  strivo  to 
clovato  hinnanity  to  sublimer  heights, 
to  loftier  moral  summits.  Ilo  who 
lives  entirely  for  himself,  lives  in  vain." 
Then  ho  was  conscious  that  the  first 
step  up  tho  weary  nioiuitain  of  abnega- 
tion must  bo  over  tho  gravo  of  buried 
hate,  revenge,  passion,  nnd  rcgrot.  "  I 
must  conquer  myself;  I  must  feel  only 
pity  and  tenderness  for  everything  that 
breathes.  I  must  give  up  tho  dainty 
refinements  and  delicacies  of  an  epicu- 
rean life.  I  must  not  reposo  on  tho  lap 
of  luxury,  while  those  I  would  help  lie 
on  bare  stones.  I  must  descend  to 
them,  or  I  cannot  lift  thorn  up."  Ho 
felt  no  compassion  for  those  who  sat  in 
high  places,  and  Hourishod  in  tho  sun 
of  prosperity.  His  heart  yearned  only 
toward  the  hmiible  creatures  who  wring 
out  a  scanty  subsistence  from  labor  and 
pain  ;  tliose  whom  wrong  and  oppres- 
sion lead  in  chains  through  tho  narrow 
brutalizing  j)aths  of  vice  ;  those  whom 
DO  onu  otl'urs  to  conduct  iu  a  broader, 


higher  way  up  to  tho  light  that  dispcla 
tho  shadiiWH  from  the  darkened  noiiI.  lie 
knew  that  the  greater  part  of  hm  conn 
try,  oppressed  with  the  double  despot- 
ism of  Church  and  State,  groaned  luider 
a  bondage  to  which  it  submitted  bo- 
cause  it  was  |H)Werless  tliron;;h  igno- 
rance and  Huperstitinn.  "Why  may  I 
not  bo  the  torch  to  illiuninate  their 
path,  and  lead  them  to  knowledge  and 
freedom  I"  was  a  (|uesliiin  he  nften  put 
to  his  own  houl  And  the  ever-ready 
iinswerwas,  "  I'Wget  thyself.  Kenu-m- 
lier  only  that  thou  art  but  an  atom  in 
(iod's  creation,  to  bo  mingled  with  tho 
great  whole  for  its  strength  and  j)er- 
fection." 

After  these  serious  communings  w  ith 
himself  on  tho  mountain-top,  Claude 
would  descend  to  Tristan  in  tho  valley, 
his  face  so  serene  and  beautiful  that  tho 
hunchback  often  thought  his  master, 
having  been  so  near  to  Heaven,  had  con- 
versed with  (lod. 

During  the  five  years  of  wandering 
amid  tho  most  rugged  and  sondiro 
haunts  of  nature,  Claude  had  accom- 
plished little  save  self-conquest.  Ho 
had  subdued  his  restless,  passionate 
heart,  he  had  strengthened  his  weak, 
ease-loving  character,  and  ho  had  dis- 
covered now  resources  within  himself, 
and  now,  like  a  good  general,  who  knows 
he  has  some  reserves,  ho  was  jireparod 
to  begin  the  battle.  For  a  few  months 
ho  had  been  living  iu  Sarzeau,  a  misera- 
ble little  town  on  tho  peninsula  of 
Uhuys,  where  he  owned  a  barren  estate 
with  an  old,  dilapidated  chateau  that 
had  long  been  considcre  1  uninhabitable. 
He  had  fixed  his  residence  there  because 
the  wild  and  rugged  scenery  of  Mor- 
bihan  and  the  peninsulas  of  Quiberon 
and  lihuys  was  congenial  to  him.  He 
liked  tho  strength  of  tho  grim  rocks, 
and  tho  freedom  of  tho  wide  sea.  There 
was  nothing  in  this  stern,  ascetic  life  to 
nurse  self-indulgenco  nnd  idleness ;  on 
the  contrary,  there  was  much  to  encour- 
age constant  occupation  and  profound 
study.  The  marvellous  monuments  of 
a  race  long  since  departed,  tho  stones 
of  Caniac  and  of  tho  islands  of  the 
Morbihan,  furnished  hira  with  a  never- 
failing  source  of  interest.  Ho  tried  to 
discover,  by  close  and  careful  investiga- 
tion, whether  they  were  memorials  of 


.  '.>  Hu  u<iBMi.ninlHJ|^.^^iW«WltWW>rt«<Xlr*'*W^tiuWhai  ■ 


A  CROWN  PROM  THE  SPKAR. 


60 


^lit  tliut  (liHpeU 
k('iii'<l  Miiiil.  llo 
Mirt  of  liiH  conn 

(Idlllllu     (ll'!*|)ot- 

',  jirimmd  iiiidtr 
Hiil>iiiiit(.'(l  1)0- 
tlii'<>i|o||  igiio- 
"  Wliy  may  I 

illuiiiiiiiitu   tlit'ir 

)  klU)Nvll'(I;,'U  mill 

ion  liu  ot'tcn  put 
tlio  L'Vir-iciKly 
VHflf.  lU'nu'in- 
i>nt  iin  atom  in 
lin^li'il  with  tlio 
cngth  and   iicr- 

ininiiinin(:;H  with 
tiiin-to|t,  t'luudc 
an  in  thu  vaUoy, 
ic'iintifnl  that  tlio 
;;ht  \m  ntaHter, 
Heave  II,  liudcon- 

rs  of  wandering 
<d  and  Humbro 
indo  had  acconi- 
if-conniicHt.  Mo 
tli'HS,  jiassionato 
iicnud  his  weak, 
and  iio  had  dis- 
i  within  himself, 
nend,  who  knows 
ho  was  prepared 
'or  a  few  months 
Mir/x'un,  a  miscra- 
lio  peninsnla  of 
d  a  barren  estate 
:cd  chateau  that 
L>1  uninhabitable, 
neo  tliero  because 
scenery  of  Mor- 
ulas of  Quiberon 
iiial  to  him.  He 
the  grim  rocks, 
3  wide  sea.  Tlicre 
Tu,  ascetic  life  to 
md  idleness ;  on 
i  much  to  cncour- 
on  and  profound 
IS  monuments  of 
artcd,  the  stones 
0  islands  of  the 
in  with  a  nevcr- 
cst.  Ho  tried  to 
careful  invcstiga- 
ro  memorials  of 


military  pow(>r  or  of  religious  riton.  To 
him  I  ho  determination  was  in  a  meaNuio 
Hignificaut  of  the  strengtli  of  hiseountr}'. 
Then  the  iniiabilants  of  tiieso  rnile 
islaniii  and  sterile  Hhores,  although  mi.s 
erably  pom-  ami  utterly  ignorant,  were  ho 
honest,  kind  lu'arted,  and  intelligent, 
that  Iio  lilt  it  to  bo  the  very  plaie  in 
whii'li  to  commeneu  his  experimental 
trial  of  doing  something  for  others. 
"Those  simple,  hardy  souls,"  ho  rea- 
soned, "are  the  men  who,  educated  and 
elevated,  will  niiiko  the  future  strengtli 
of  til '  eountry.  The  pleasure  loving,  ef- 
feminate Parisian  is  like  tho  froth  that 
rises  to  the  surface  of  a  full  glass  ;  and 
thi'Ne  strong  drudges  aro  the  stamina 
that   MUpjioit  it." 

There  was  scarce  a  rude  peasant  or  a 
sun  lirowned  tislierman  in  all  tho  de- 
])artment  of  Morbihan  who  did  not 
bless  tho  Virgin  every  day  for  sending 
them  tho  kind-hearted  young  t'oimt 
and  Ills  gentlo  servant.  Claude,  desir- 
ing t  make  Tristan  happy,  allowed  him 
to  tlispenso  tho  alms  he  so  freely  pro- 
vided, and  the  poor  people  looked  upon 
him,  in  spite  of  his  unprepossessing 
person,  as  an  angel  of  charity. 

Claude's  majority  had  come  and 
passed  without  any  commimication  from 
the  Archdeacon,  unless  a  long  letter 
from  his  man  of  atfairs  could  bo  con- 
sidered such.  This  letter  announced 
in  the  stitfest  and  most  formal  terms 
that  M.  lo  Com  to  do  Clermont  having 
reached  his  majority,  the  guardianship 
of  the  Archdeacon  terminated  according 
to  the  will  of  his  father,  the  late  Count 
of  Clermont.  That  his  lordship  had 
delivered  into  his  hands  all  the  books, 
deeds,  and  documents  relating  to  tho 
estate  of  Clermont.  That  his  lordship 
had  withdrawn  his  residence  from  Cler- 
mont and  left  tho  chateau  in  the  charge 
of  a  reliable  steward.  That  on  account 
of  tho  failure  of  sundry  investments, 
that  at  tho  time  when  they  were  made 
were  deemed  judicious  by  the  Archdea- 
con, the  revenues  of  tho  estate  were 
consiilerably  diminished ;  and  that  his 
lordship  had  thought  it  advisable  to  dis- 
pose of  some  outlying  lauds  in  order  to 
cancel  mortgages  on  tho  whole;  that 
the  chutouu  and  the  estate  around  it 
wore  intact,  and  that  all  the  aftaira  had 
been  arranged  iu  the  most  odvautagooua 


manner  ;  but  if  M.  lo  Comte  wiNlied  for 
a  more  drtailed  Htati-mnit  of  invest- 
ment.i  and  Hcenrities,  he  woiilil  be  hap- 
py to  be  honored  with  his  counnands, 
etc.,  etc. 

In  spite  of  the  general  character  of 
this  letliT,  Claude  understood  that  by 
some  pnii CSS  bis  inheritance  had  (greatly 
diminislu'd,  insteail  of  increasing,  nniler 
tho  control  of  the  Archdeacon,  and  that 
ho  was  not  nearly  as  rich  as  he  had 
sujipoHcd.  What  had  become  of  tho 
large  estate  Imn  lather  hud  left  him  i 
However,  at  that  time  he  was  so  eii- 
urossed  in  matters  of  moral  im|ioitanco 
that  he  eare<l  very  little  aliout  entering 
into  details  of  a  linaneial  character  ;  anil 
as  his  income  was  amply  sntlicient  for 
his  simple  wants  and  charitable  expen- 
ilitures,  he  deferred  an  investigation 
that  might  have  revealed  some  trans- 
actions not  strictly  honest  un  the  part 
of  his  guardian. 

Ho  had  heard  nothing  from  Ci'Iesto 
since  the  li'tter  of  Kanchetto,  that  in- 
formed him  of  her  sacrifice.  Ho  had 
come  to  think  of  her  as  wo  think  of  ono 
long  dead,  and  to  mourn  for  her  as  we 
mourn  for  those  whom  wo  believ(>  to  bo 
saints  in  Heaven  ;  neither  had  ho  con- 
tiiuied  his  corrospondenco  with  Fan- 
chetto,  for  his  letter  in  reply  to  her 
passionate  outburst  agtiinst  tho  Arch- 
deacon and  his  acoomplice,  I'ero  lieuoit, 
was  never  answered ;  and  so  all  inter- 
course had  ceased  between  him  and 
those  who  had  filled  such  an  important 
place  in  his  life  at  Clermont.  Sarzeau 
and  his  stern,  cold  existence  seemed  a 
boundary  lino  between  the  poetry  and 
romance  of  his  past  and  the  austere 
reality  of  his  future. 


PART  SECOND. 

ciiAteau  of  sarzkau. 

When  Claude  reached  tho  dilapidated 
gate  of  the  ruinous  pile  that  tho  simjilo 
peasantry  dignified  with  tho  name  of 
ch&tcau,  it  had  long  bocn  dark,  and 
Ixus  showed  such  unmistakable  signs 
of  weariness,  that  his  master,  who  re- 
lieved him  of  tho  weight  of  tho  game- 
bosket,  really  pitied  him.     A  souiuwh-.it 


It 


3 


r 


60 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


imperative  pull  at  the  iron  chain 
brought  a  wizened  old  man  with  a  lit- 
tle brass  lamp  in  his  hand,  which  shed 
a  feeble  light  over  his  white  beard,  red 
cap,  and  blue  shirt.  As  he  opened  the 
gate,  after  fumbling  a  long  time  over 
the  useless  lock,  Ixus  rushed  in  between 
his  bent  and  trembling  legs,  almost 
upsetting  him  by  his  impetuosity,  and 
quite  internipting  the  unintelligible 
string  of  questions  he  was  addressing 
to  Claude  in  a  feeble,  querulous 
voice. 

"  Never  mind,  my  good  Janot,  Ixus 
is  a  rude  brute  to  enter  so  unceremoni- 
ously," replied  Claude,  kindly  interrupt- 
ing the  old  man,  who  always  grumbled 
when  he  was  disturbed  to  open  the 
gate.  "  I  know  I  am  late,  very  late, 
but  I  won't  complain  if  the  potage  is 
ruined.  Give  me  the  lamp  and  I  will 
lead  the  way." 

"  But  Nanette,"  ho  muttered  as  he 
hobbled  after  his  master,  "poor  Nanette ; 
she  never  sleeps  well  if  her  potage  is 
ruined." 

They  crossed  the  court ;  in  the  centre 
of  the  broken  pavement  was  a  mutilated 
fountain.      The   chubby  Cupids,   from 
whose  united  lips  the  pure  water  had 
once  issued,  had  long  before  lost  their 
legs  and  arms,  and  now  the  thin  stream 
that  trickled  down  their  battered  checks 
seemed  like  tears  they  were  shedding 
over  their  unhappy  fate.     On  the  tail 
of   the    dolphin    that    supported    the 
maimed    loves    hung   a   great    copper 
kettle  which  caught  the  scanty  shower 
until  it  filled  and  ran  over  in  a  gentle 
spray  upon   the   heads   of  celery    and 
lettuce  that  floated  in  the  moss-covered 
basin.     The  corners  of  the  quadrangle 
were  filled  with  all  sorts  of  rubbish,  — 
broken  gardening  implements,  old  barrels 
and  baskets,  piles  of  brush-wood,  furze, 
and  dried  sea-weed,  —  among  which,  on 
sunny  days,  a  stately  cock  with  a  brood 
of  submissive  hens  deigned  to  scratch, 
much  to  the  disgust  of  a  fat  black  pig 
who    usually    took    his    siesta    there. 
Along  one   side  of  the   court  was  an 
open   corridor    that    led    into   a   large 
deserted  room  that  had  once  been  the 
reception-hall  of  some  of  the  nobles  of 
Sarzeau.      There  were  the  broken  and 
much-abused   remains    of   several  fine 
pieces  of  statuary  ;  some  old  armor  was 


fastened  on  the  walls,  and  a  piece  of 
faded  tapestry  hung  in  rags  between 
the  stone  muUioned  windows.  A  great 
feeding-trough,  filled  with  grain,  lay 
before  the  antique  fireplace,  which  was 
stuffed  with  every  kind  of  trash,  and 
several  heavy  oak  benches,  with  elab- 
orately carved  backs,  were  loaded  with 
bags  of  hemp,  sacks  of  vegetal)los,  and 
old  clothes,  piled  indiscriminately  to- 
gether. From  the  far  end,  through  a 
door,  gleamed  a  ray  of  light,  and  the 
savory  smell  of  potage  greeted  them  as 
they  crossed  the  dreary  hall. 

"  Poor  Nanette  !  "  muttered  the  old 
man  again,  as  they  entered  what  had 
once  been  the  library,  but  was  now  the 
kitchen.  A  brisk-looking  little  woman, 
who  did  not  seem  nearly  as  old  as  her 
husband,  stood  before  a  clean  jjine  table 
making  a  salad.  She  was  dressed  in 
the  blue  skirt,  laced  bodice,  higli  cap, 
and  wooden  shoes  of  the  peasants  of 
Brittany. 

♦'  Well,  my  dear  monsieur,  I  am  glad 
you  are  come,"  she  said  with  a  cheery 
bright  smile  that  lightened  up  tlie  din- 
gy room  more  than  the  feeble  flame  of 
her  lamp;  "  I  am  afraid  my  cliicken  is 
dried  to  a  crust,  and  my  oseille  boiled  to 
gruel ;  and  if  you  are  as  hungry  as  Ixus, 
I  have  not  enough  decently  cooked  for 
you  to  eat."  The  poor  brute  stood 
with  his  wet  mouth  on  the  edge  of  the 
table,  looking  into  Nanette's  face  wist- 
fully, whil'i  he  wagged  his  tail  in  a  way 
that  expressed  the  keenest  ap[)ctite. 

Claude  patted  the  dog  on  the  head, 
and  said,  good-humoredly,  "  Poor  Ixus 
has  not  enough  deception  to  disguise 
what  he  feels,  and  1  have,  Nanette,  — 
that  is  all  the  difference.  Serve  up 
your  dinner  as  3oon  as  you  please,  and 
we  shall  eat  it  whether  it  is  good  or 
bad,  for  with  walking  and  with  fasting 
we  imve  had  a  hard  day." 

"  And  yet  your  game-basket  is  nearly 
empty,  monsieur,"  said  old  Janot,  con- 
temptuousl}',  as  ho  threw  a  few  small 
birds  on  the  table.  "  Monsieur  Ic  Comte, 
your  father  did  not  come  back  from 
hunting  without  game.  He  was  the 
best  shot  I  ever  saw,  though  ho  was 
not  much  of  a  walker." 

"  I  am  a  great  dreamer,  Janot,  which 
is  the  reason  I  don't  kill  more  birds," 
replied  Claude,  apologetically.  "  I  somc- 


JUX-Mt-JWiUMJ! 


.#  aiiii.i!iih-a  jiieiiit»-W!..iw 


,  and  a  piece  of 
n  niys  between 
idowu.  A  great 
with  grain,  lay 
place,  which  was 
id  of  trash,  and 
iches,  with  elab- 
rere  loaded  with 
'  vegetables,  and 
iscriminately  to- 

end,  through  a 
f  liglit,  and  the 
greeted  them  as 
J  hall. 

nattered  the  old 
itered  what  had 
but  was  now  the 
mg  little  woman, 
rly  as  old  as  her 
I  clean  pine  table 

was  dressed  in 
jodice,  higli  cap, 
the  peasants  of 

nsicur,  I  am  glad 
id  with  a  cheery 
;ened  up  the  diu- 
e  feeble  flame  of 
id  my  chicken  is 
ly  oseille  boiled  to 
s  hungry  as  Ixus, 
cently  cooked  for 
•oor  brute  stood 
n  the  edge  of  the 
inette's  face  wist- 

his  tail  in  a  way 
!nest  appetite, 
iog  on  the  head, 
edly,  "  Poor  Ixus 
ption  to  disguise 
have,  Nanette,  — 
•ence.  Serve  up 
8  you  please,  and 
her  it  is  good  or 

and  with  fasting 

.y." 

»e-basket  is  nearly 
id  old  Janot,  con- 
hrew  a  few  small 
^lonsieur  le  Comte, 
come  back  from 
)e.  He  was  the 
r,  though  he  was 

mer,  Janot,  which 

kill  more  birds," 

etically.  "  I  somo- 


llMBlUJ-fl-IJlfcillia' — 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


61 


times  forget  to 


firo  even  when 


game 
comes  m  my  way." 

"  No,  no,  monseitir,  it  is  not  because 
you  are  a  dreamer,  it  is  because  you  get 
too  much  interested  in  the  rocks  about 
here,"  returned  the  old  man,  grimly. 

Claude  did  not  reply,  but  smiled 
indulgently,  as  he  laid  his  gun  on  some 
hooks  in  the  wall,  and  turned  to  enter 
an  inner  room.  In  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  on  a  bit  of  rug,  sat  Tristan,  a  small 
lamp  beside  him,  an  open  book  on  his 
lap,  and  his  head  bent  forward  on  his 
breast,  fast  asleep.  Claude  looked  at 
him  for  a  few  moments,  his  face  full  of 
loving  compassion.  His  poor  bowed 
head  with  its  shock  of  neglected  hair, 
his  deformed  shoulders,  and  long,  thin 
hands  folded  over  the  book,  filled  the 
young  man's  heart  with  pity.  "  Patient, 
suffering  creature,"  he  thought,  "shut 
out  forever  from  the  love  and  admira- 
tion of  humanity,  he  forgets  his  misfor- 
tunes in  peaceful  sleep,  the  blessed  opiate 
that  God  gives  us  to  soothe  our  pain." 
Then  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  hunch- 
back's head  and  said  gently,  "  Tristan, 
Tristan,  couldst  thou  not  keep  awake 
until  I  came  ] " 

Tristan  started  up  bewildered,  but 
seeing  his  master's  kind  face  bending 
over  him,  his  look  of  confusion  changed 
to  shame  and  penitence,  and  he  hung 
his  head  while  he  muttered  his  excuses. 
"  0  monsieur !  I  went  into  the  court  so 
many  times,  and  once  I  walked  a  long 
way  on  the  road  to  Morbihan,  but  I  did 
not  meet  you,  and  I  was  tired  and  lone- 
some, so  I  sat  down  to  study  my  lesson. 
I  did  intend  to  hear  the  bell,  and  to  let 
you  in ;  but  it  was  so  still  here  without 
you  and  Ixus,  that,  before  I  knew  it,  I 
lost  myself." 

"  Never  mind,  my  boy,"  said  Claude, 
kindly,  "  I  am  glad  you  slept ;  I  like 
you  to  rest  when  you  are  tired.  I 
will  not  stay  away  so  late  again,  for 
Janot  has  scolded  me,  and  Nanette  says 
the  dinner  is  spoiled;  now  make  me 
comfortable  for  the  evening." 

Tristan,  fully  awake,  and  more  active 
than  usual  because  he  felt  that  he  had 
been  a  little  neglectful,  drew  off  his 
master's  coat  and  boots,  and  replaced 
them  with  a  dressing-gown  and  slippers, 
and  then  assisted  Nanette  to  serve,  the 
dinner. 


After  the  simple  meal  was  finished, 
Claude  lit  a  cigar,  and  went  out  on  a 
balcony  overlooking  the  garden,  to  med- 
itate and  smoke  ;  while  5fanctte  cleared 
the  table,  and  Tristan  lit  the  candles, 
piled  fresh  wood  on  the  fire,  and 
made  the  oidy  habitable  room  in  the 
old  ch&teau  as  cheerful  as  possible. 

In  his  middle  age,  and  after  city 
pleasures  had  become  somewhat  tamo, 
the  deceased  Count  of  Clermont  had 
conceived  the  idea  that  this  almost 
worthless  and  neglected  property 
might  yield  him  some  nnnisement,  if 
not  profit.  So,  for  a  few  weeks  in  each 
year,  ho  came  down  from  Piiris  with  a 
nimiber  of  friends,  cooks,  and  grooms,  to 
shoot  and  fish  among  the  >'ands  and 
inlets  of  the  Morbihan.  .  Several  rooms 
had  been  redeemed  from  dust  and  de- 
cay, and  made  comfortable  with  the 
cast-off  furniture  of  Chateau  Clermont, 
which  at  that  time  had  been  renovated 
for  the  reception  of  Claude's  mother, 
then  a  bride.  The  room  that  the  young 
Count  now  occupied  liad  been  fitted  up 
with  more  pretension  than  the  others, 
as  a  salte  d  manner  ;  and  because  of  the 
hangings,  pictures,  and  rare  cabinet  of 
tarsia  work,  had  been  preserved  w*ith 
care  by  old  Janot  and  his  wife,  who  had 
been  servants  to  the  late  Count,  as  a 
sort  of  show-room,  for  the  simple  peas- 
ants and  curious  strangers  who  visited 
Sarzeau.  During  all  the  years  that  had 
intervened  between  the  Count's  death 
and  his  son's  majority,  no  one  had  dis- 
turbed the  possession  of  the  old  couple, 
who  lived  as  they  best  could  off  of  the 
scanty  produce  of  the  little  garden,  the 
almost  barren  rocks,  and  the  small  coin 
they  now  and  then  received  from  the 
inquisitive  who  came  to  look  at  the 
chateau  ;  which,  after  all,  was  but  little 
more  than  a  tumble-down  country- 
house,  with  no  historical  association  to 
give  it  interest.  Gradually  all  the 
rooms  had  been  dismantled,  and  shut 
up  to  dust  and  silence,  save  the  two 
the  old  servants  occiipied.  When  Claude 
arrived,  he  had  been  obliged  to  purchase 
simple  furniture  enough  to  arrange  two 
sleeping-rooms,  one  for  himself,  and 
one  for  Tristan  ;  these,  with  his  mile 
d,  manger,  constituted  his  apartment. 
The  dining-room  was  large  and  lofty, 
with  a  fine  frescoed  ceiling  and  heavy 


w 


H 


^i^nmssme^mmstssmt^^mm&'mmsmimse^sSrHmmsmap!: 


62 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


carved  cornice.  Worn  and  faded  Ool)- 
cliii  ta[)e8try  decorated  tho  walls ;  a 
large  mirror  in  a  Renaissance  frame 
covered  the  space  between  the  high, 
narrow  windows,  tho  upper  part  of 
which  was  composed  of  curious  stained 
glass,  in  small  diamond  panes,  while  the 
lower  part  was  evidently  of  a  more  re- 
cent date.  Several  large  and  one  or 
two  rather  good  pictures  of  the  old 
French  school  hung  over  the  doors  and 
windows,  without  any  regard  to  light 
or  arrangement.  But  the  most  curious 
and  interesting  objects  in  the  room 
were  a  Louis  XIV.  fireplace  and  an 
exquisitely  inlaid  cabinet.  This  costly 
piece  of  furniture  had  attracted  Claude's 


attention ;  and  he  had  asked  Nanette 
tho  history  of  it.     All  she  could  tell 
him   about   it   was  that   it   had  been 
brought  with  the  other  things  from  the 
Chateau  de  Clermont.     The  chairs  had 
once  been  richly  gilded,  but  time  had 
tarnished  their  glitter    and  faded  the 
delicate  tints  of  the  tapestry  that  cov- 
ered them.     Two  uninviting  sofas  stood, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  chimney,  their 
hard  arms  offering  no  temptation  to  the 
weary.     Tristan  had  tried  to  make  tho 
room  a  little  more  cheerful  by  various 
devices.     He  had  spread  his  master's 
tiger-skin  wrap  before  the  hearth ;  with 
a  bright  Scotch    plaid   he  had  trans- 
formed some  pillows  into  cushions  for 
the   sofa,    decorated  the   mantle  with 
ferns  and  shells,  and  filled  one  of  Na- 
nette's blue  jugs  with  flowers  for  the 
centre.     A  bright  wood-fire  burned  in 
the   chimney,  and   Ixus   lay  stretched 
at  full  length  before  it.     Two  common 
candles,  in  Nanette's  bmss  candlesticks, 
flared  and  spiittered  en  a  small  table, 
drawn  up  by  the  sofa,  on  which  were 
Claude's  writing-desk  and  favorite  books. 
When  Tristan  had  airanged  every- 
thing for  the  evening,  agreeable  to  his 
own  taste,  he  stepped  out  on  the  bal- 
cony where  Claude  was  smoking  and 
musing,  his  eyes  fixed   on  tho  starlit 
heavens,  and  his  thoughts  following  his 
gaze  into  that  infinite  space  where  the 
Creator  has  strewn  his  most  beautiful 
gems  to  soften  tlie  shadow  that  broods 
over  the  brow  of  night. 

As  the  servant  approached  he  heard 
his  master  B»iy,  as  if  ho  were  addressing 
the  nebulous  clouds  that  floated  above 


him,  "  0,  if  you  could  but  tell  mo  she 
was  there  in  peace  forever,  saved  from 
sonow  and  regret ! "  Tristan  felt  it  his 
imperative  duty  to  inteiTupt  such  sen- 
timental reflections,  so  ho  laid  his  hand 
on  tho  arm  of  tho  dreamer  and  said, 
"  Monsieur  Claude,  the  candles  are  lit 
and  the  fire  is  burning  nicely.  Will 
you  not  come  in  1  I  am  afraid  you  will 
take  cold,  it  is  so  chilly  hero." 

Claude  withdrew  his  gaze  reluctantly 
from  tho  stars,  and  fixed  it  on  Tristan, 
saying,  without  the  slightest  impatience, 
"  I  understand  your  anxiety,  you  drdle ; 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  eager  to 
hear  the  last  chapter  of  Nathan  le  Sage. 
Ah,  Tristan !  you  veil  your  modest  de- 
sires with  such  a  delicate  tissue  of  aft'ec- 
tion  that  one  can  perceive  them  under 
their  transparent  covering.  And  you  are 
an  awful  tyrant,  in  spite  of  your  gentle 
ways,  for  you  always  wheedle  me  into 
doing  just  as  you  wish.  Don't  look  so 
distressed,  mon  ami,  I  am  only  teasing. 
You  are  quite  right  to  interrupt  my 
regretful  meditations.  We  will  go  in 
and  finish  the  book  before  your  bright 
fire."  And  laying  his  arm  tenderly 
around  the  deformed  shoulder  of  his 
companion,  the  two  entered  tho  room 
together. 

Claude  threw  himself  on  tho  sofa 
piled  with  pillows,  and  the  hunchback 
dropped  upon  the  tiger-skin  at  his  feet. 
"  Why  don't  you  sit  on  a  chair,  Tris- 
tan "i  "  said  Claude,  looking  at  him,  cu- 
riously. 

"  Because  a  chair  hurts  my  back,  and 
then  my  proper  place  is  at  your  feet." 

"  Cher  sot !  why,  you  are  fit  to  sit  in 
the  presence  of  a  king ! " 

"  No,  monsieur,  no,  I  am  only  a  poor 
unfortunate  whom  your  kindness  has 
saved." 

"You  have  not  read  to  me  to-day, 
Tristan.     Where  is  your  book  1 " 

"Hero  it  is, monsieur,"  drawing  it  from 
under  the  pillow  of  the  sofa,  and  care- 
fully opening  it  at  the  mark,  —  "  hero 
it  is,  but  would  you  not  rather  read 
Nathan  ?  I  can  wait  until  to-morrow, 
although"  —  with  a  little  desire  in  his 
voice  —  "I  should  so  like  you  to  hear 
this  before  I  forget  it.  I  have  studied 
It  so  much  to-day  that  I  think  I  can 
read  it  quite  well." 

"  Begin,  Je  suis  tout  &  tot,  mon  am.' 


i.M.B«tJ«M»ii»lwMttMi)iMMii»iiWI*ti1Wi» 


lit  tell  mc  sho 
k'cr,  saved  from 
ristan  felt  it  hia 
Tupt  such  scn- 
ic  laid  his  hand 
imcr  and  ssid, 

candles  nrc  lit 
',  nicely.     Will 

afraid  you  will 
here." 

!;aze  reluctantly 
d  it  on  Tristan, 
test  impatience, 
iety,  you  dr6le ; 
ou  are  eager  to 
Nathan  le  Sage. 
our  modest  de- 
e  tissue  of  afl'ec- 
ive  them  under 
ig.    And  you  are 

of  your  gentle 
'hccdle  me  into 
Don't  look  so 
m  only  teasing. 

0  interrupt  my 
We  will  go  in 

ore  your  bright 
arm  tenderly 
shoulder  of  his 
itered  the  room 

;lf   on  the    sofa 
the  hunchback 
-skin  at  his  feet, 
on  a  chair,  Tris- 
{ing  at  him,  cu- 

rts  my  back,  and 

1  at  your  feet." 

1  are  fit  to  sit  in 

!" 

[  am  only  a  poor 

ir  kindness   has 

d  to  me  to-day, 
irbookl" 
"  drawing  it  from 
le  sofa,  and  care- 
I  mark,  —  "  hero 
aot  rather  read 
until  to-morrow, 
tie  desire  in  his 
like  you  to  hear 
I  have  studied 
t  I  think  I  can 

d,  tot,  man  am." 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


63 


- 
I 


The  book  was  a  work  of  Heji;esippo 
MorciUi,  and  Tristan's  favorite  chiiptur 
was  Le  Chant  (FIxm.  Because  he  liked 
it  lie  had  s^'iven  lIio  not  very  felicitous 
name  to  tiio  great  dog  of  Brittany.  He 
had  studied  tiiis  song  for  months,  nearly 
ever  since  Claude  had  conceived  tlie 
idea  of  teiichiag  him  to  read,  and  now 
he  was  certain  he  could  go  tlirou'^h  it 
without  mistakes.  Laying  the  onen 
book  on  his  knees,  and  bending  over  it 
until  his  nose  almost  touched  the  j.uge, 
ho  began  slowly  and  hesitatingly,  his 
joy  and  eagerness  aluiost  sufi'ocating 
him.  "Ouvrez, — Jo  suis  —  Ixus,  le 
pauvro  —  gui  de  cheno  —  qu'un  coup  — 
do  vent  ferait  mourir."  Gaining  confi- 
dence as  ho  went  on,  he  read  with  great 
correctness  the  exquisite  little  fantasy 
to  the  end.  Wlien  ho  had  finished  it 
he  clas])ed  his  hands  in  ecstasy,  and 
raising  his  eyes  brimming  with  tears  to 
Claude's  kind  face,  he  said :  "  Grand 
Dieu !  Is  it  not  beautiful  to  know 
how  to  read?  0  monsieur,  you  have 
opened  paradise  to  me  !  Now  I  under- 
stand everything  ;  and  one  never  forgets, 
does  he  ] "  This  he  said  with  such  a  sud- 
den change  from  exultation  to  the  most 
pitiful  .ijxiety,  that  Claude  could  not 
refrain  from  laughing  as  ho  replied, 
"  No,  my  dear  boy,  one  never  forgets 
what  he  has  once  learned  thoroughly. 
There  are  many  things  it  is  well  to  re- 
member, but  there  are  others  it  is  better 
to  forget." 

"  I  know  that,  monsieur." 

"  How  should  you  1  There  is  noth- 
ing in  your  life  you  would  wish  to  for- 
get, —  is  there,  Tristan  1 " 

"0  yes,  monsieur,  there  are  many 
things,"  replied  the  hunchback,  bend- 
ing his  head  over  the  book,  while  the 
tears  pattered  zii  the  page.  "  I  wish  I 
could  forget  all  the  ridicule,  insults,  and 
blows  I  iiavc  received.  I  wish  I  could 
forget  that  I  am  not  like  othera ;  that  I 
am  more  hideous  than  a  beast ;  that 
all  but  the  few  who  know  me  look  at 
mo  with  loathing;  that  the  world  has 
neither  lovo  nor  pity  for  such  unfor- 
tunates as  I ;  and  I  wish  the  past  was 
not  always  before  me.  Tlie  dreadful 
scene  of  the  last  night  at  Clermont 
haunts  me  sleeping  '..id  waking.  I  suf- 
fer to  remember  the  wrong  and  cruelty 
you  have  endured  innocently ;  and  more 


than  all,  I  wish  I  could  forgot  the  sweet 
voice  of  Mademoiselle  Aiin^c.  I  lioar 
it  always  in  the  wind  and  in  the  sea. 
When  a  bird  flies  above  me  with  a  clear 
song,  I  start  and  treiul>le,  for  1  nniein- 
ber  lier  laugh,  and  it  seems  to  eciio  in 
my  ears  O  monsieur !  she  was  an  an- 
gel to  me,  and  I  loved  lier.  I  loved  her 
so  that  when  she  was  lost  sometiiing 
seemed  to  die  within  me  that  will  never 
live  again.  She  is  dead,  and  yet  I  see  her 
always.  Her  eyes,  her  white  teetii,  her 
bright  smile,  all,  all  are  painted  on  my 
heart,  and  the  picture  will  never  fade." 

"  Ah,  Tristan  !  she  haunts  me  also. 
For  five  years  sho  has  seemed  to  sur- 
round me  with  an  invisible  presence,  to 
keep  alive  the  anguish  of  regret  and  re- 
morse. I  loved  her  as  a  sister,  and 
yet  unwillingly  and  ignorantly  I  drove 
her  to  despair.  I  mourn  for  her.  I  de- 
plore her  fate  always.  When  she  died, 
joy  died  with  her.  They  are  both  dead, 
those  two  dear  faces  are  lost  forever  to 
my  sight ;  one  is  hidden  in  the  depths 
of  the  sea,  and  the  other  in  a  living 
grave.  Alas  that  I  have  survived  to 
say  it!" 

Tristan  pressed  his  master's  hand 
with  silent  sympathy. 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  no 
sound  in  the  room  save  the  heavy 
l)reathing  of  Ixus  and  the  sputtering  of 
the  flames  in  the  cliiiuney.  Then  Claude 
laid  his  hand  on  the  l)owed  head  of  the 
hunchback,  and  said  firmly  but  gently, 
"  My  boy,  we  must  talk  of  this  no  more. 
It  unnerves  us  and  makes  us  weak  to 
no  purpose.  It  is  God  who  has  dono 
all,  and  what  he  does  is  well  done, 
tlierefore  we  have  nothing  to  say  against 
it.  Let  us  both  strive  to  forget  the 
past  and  live  for  the  future.  We  need 
not  bo  idle,  Tristan,  we  have  much  to 
do." 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  there  is  much  to  do. 
Even  in  this  little  town  there  are  many 
poor  and  suffering  creatures.  I  heard 
something  to-day  that  tore  my  heart. 
A  wretched  woman,  nearly  ninety,  told 
me  she  had  never  in  all  h,  life  had 
once  enough  to  e.at.  0  mon  Dieu ! 
only  think  of  being  always  hungry  for 
ninety  years."  And  Tristan  wrung  his 
hands,  and  rocked  himself  back  and 
forth  in  real  distress  at  the  tliought  of 
such  protracted  starvation. 


( 


64 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


"  Is  it  posBible  ! "  cried  Claude  with 
interest,  —  "  is  it  possible  that  any  one 
can  live  ninety  years  in  such  misery  1 
Find  her  to-morrow,  Tristan,  and  give 
her  enoujjh  to  eat  for  once." 

"  I  had  given  away  all  I  had  before  I 
saw  her,  but  I  brought  her  home  to 
Nanette,  and  she  fed  her  with  what  she 
liad  to  spare ;  and  when  she  had  eaten 
all,  her  eyes  still  looked  as  eager  as  a 
hungry  dog's." 

"  Poor  soul !  she  had  starved  so  long," 
said  Claude,  compassionately. 

"  Monsieur,  I  want  to  ask  a  favor  of 
you  ;  may  I  ] " 

•'  Certainly,  what  is  iti  Do  you  wish 
to  establish  a  soup-house,  or  a  hospital, 
or  what  1  come,  tell  me,"  laughed  Claude, 
amused  at  the  poor  fellow's  blended 
expression  of  eagerness  and  timidity. 

"  0  monsieur,  don't  mock  me  !  "  im- 
plored Tristan,  as  he  folded  his  long 
arms  around  his  knees  and  drew  him- 
Bolf  up  into  a  bunch,  changing  his  posi- 
tion to  one  more  comfortable  before  he 
began  his  important  reqiiest.  "  It  is 
this  :  Now  that  I  have  learned  to  read, 
and  know  what  a  blessing  it  is,  I  want 
to  teach  some  of  these  poor  children 
who  lie  about  in  the  sun  all  day  with 
the  pigs ;  there  are  more  than  twenty  of 
them.  May  I  bring  them  here  into  the 
great  hall,  and  teach  them  for  a  few 
hours  each  day  1 " 

"  That  you  may,  my  good  soul,"  re- 
plied Claude,  heartily,  "  and  I  will  help 
you.  To-morrow,  if  we  can  find  a  car- 
penter, we  will  have  the  benches  mend- 
ed, and  a  blackboard  made,  so  that  you 
can  teach  them  in  the  most  comfortable 
way." 

"  0,  how  good  you  are ! "  cried  Tristan, 
kissing  his  master's  hand  with  lively 
gratitude  ;  "  now  I  will  go  to  bed  and 
dream  of  it,  and  to-morrow  I  shall 
awake  happy." 

After  Tristan  retired,  taking  Ixus, 
who  always  slept  by  his  bed,  Claude 
arose  and  walked  briskly  up  and  down 
the  room  several  times,  that  he  might 
shake  off  the  drowsiness  which  his  wea- 
riness made  difficult  to  resist.  Then  he 
opened  the  window  and  stood  for  a  few 
moments  on  the  balcony.  Now  he  did 
not  raise  his  eyes  to  the  stars,  but  rather 
let  them  fall  on  the  silent  town  beneath 
him.    Most  of  the  poor  toilers  were  at 


rest.  Hero  and  there  a  dim  light  shone 
for  a  moment,  and  then  went  o\it,  and 
darkness  dropped  the  last  fold  of  her 
heavy  veil  over  tlie  deserted  streets. 

The  sinful,  the  ignorant,  the  Innigry, 
all  share  alike  the  common  blessing  of 
sleep,  he  thought  as  ho  turned  to  his 
lighted  room.  Now  he  seemed  fresh 
and  energetic,  for  he  arranged  hirf  desk, 
and  taking  a  number  of  heavy  volumes 
from  the  shelves  of  the  old  cabinet,  he 
laid  them  on  the  table  for  reference. 
They  were  mostly  the  works  of  Monta- 
lombert.  Do  Tocquevillo,  Thiers,  and  11(5- 
musat,  on  religion,  politics,  and  litera- 
ture. Then  he  drew  up  one  of  the  stiff 
chairs  to  the  table,  and,  seating  himself, 
began  to  write  rapidly,  now  and  then 
pausing  to  refer  to  his  books.  His  cheeks 
were  flushed,  and  his  eyes  were  clear 
and  intelligent;  theie  were  no  signs  of 
languor  and  weariness  in  his  face  now. 
When  at  length  the  candles  flared  out 
in  their  sockets  and  the  feeble  light  of 
the  lamp  waned,  he  laid  down  his  pen 
and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  long 
past  midnight,  and  he  had  written  an 
eloquent  chapter  on  modern  reform. 

At  that  time  a  number  of  cor.,fibu- 
tions  to  the  Hevue  des  Deux  Mondes 
attracted  universal  attention  by  their 
strength,  truth,  and  conciseness,  as  well 
as  the  profound  thought,  delicate  humor, 
and  tender  pathos  that  distinguished 
them. 

The  world  did  not  know  that  they 
were  brought  into  being  in  a  solitary 
ruin  on  the  rugged  shore  of  Morbihan, 
strengthened  by  the  free  wind  and  wide 
sea,  ennobled  by  self-denial  and  sacrifice, 
sweetened  by  a  tender  memory,  and 
saddened  by  a  life-long  regret. 


PART  THIRD. 

LA   CROIX   VERTB. 

"  I  TELL  you,  M.  Jacquelon,  he  is  a 
heretic  in  disguise,  and  the  hunchback 
is  a  sly  knave  who  will  try  to  moke  con- 
verts of  yotir  children." 

"  Pardon,  M.  le  Cur^,  the.  hunchback 
never  speaks  to  the  little  ones  of  any 
religion  only  that  of  our  Blessed  Lady." 

"  How  can  you  tell  1  you  are  not 


tittiiaaMiiii 


irtteii"«)*ii«iti'i«''«'l'''«"*'*'*"'* 


iM>iiii«Miiai8to«*if*jM 


dim  light  shone 

I  went  out,  niul 

Iu8t  fold  of  her 

rtcd  streets. 

int,  the  hungry, 

uon  blessing  of 

0  turned  to  his 

10  seemed  fresh 

ranged  his  desk, 

heavy  volumes 

old  eubinet,  ho 

for  reference. 

works  of  Monta- 

Thiers,  nnd  li<5- 

itics,  and  litera- 

)  one  of  the  stiff 

seating  himself, 

,  now  and  then 

)okB.   His  cheeks 

eyes  were  clear 

vere  no  signs  of 

in  his  face  now. 

mdles  flared  out 

0  feeble  light  of 

id  down  his  pen 

!h.     It  was  long 

had  written  an 

tdern  reform. 

iber  of  coivribn- 

'»   Deux   Monde$ 

tention  by  their 

iciseness,  as  well 

fc,  delicate  humor, 

lat  distinguished 

know  that  they 
ng  in  a  solitary 
jre  of  Morbiban, 
je  wind  and  wide 
nial  and  sacrifice, 


3r  memory, 


and 


regret. 


IRD. 

XRTE. 


icq\ielon,  he  is  a 
1  the  hunchback 
try  to  make  con- 

i,  thO'  hunchback 
ttle  ones  of  any 
ir  Blessed  Lady." 
,11  yon  are  not 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


66 


thero  to  hoar  him,  and  thn  little  inno- 
cents can't  see  the  Devil  when  he  is 
covered  with  the  fleece  of  a  sheep.  I 
tell  you,  M.  Jooquelon,  no  good  can  come 
from  such  an  innovation.  What  more 
do  the  children  of  the  parish  need  than 
their  Catechism  on  Sunday,  and  their 
week-day  lessons  from  Mfero  Roche  1 " 

"  Ah,  M.  le  Cure,  that  is  all  very 
well  for  those  who  get  Catechism  on 
Sunday,  and  Mere  Roche  through  the 
week ;  but  it  is  not  every  father  in  Sar- 
zeau  who  has  five  francs  to  pay  each 
month  to  M6ro  Roche,  and  it  is  not 
every  child  that  has  a  decent  frock  to 
wear  to  Catechism  on  Sunday.  It  is 
only  tho  dirty  little  wretches  that  are 
starved  that  the  pigs  may  thrive,  and 
who  never  touch  water  unless  they  fall 
into  it  accidentally,  and  who  never  saw 
a  comb  in  their  lives,  and  never  slept  on 
anything  better  than  straw,  —  it  is  ohly 
such  as  these  that  the  poor  hunchback 
Tristan  gathers  up  like  a  drove  of  stray 
pigs,  and  leads  off  to  the  great  hall, 
where  he  feeds  them  first,  and  then 
teaches  them  to  read  afterwards.  And 
they  say  that  M.  lo  Comte  assists  him." 

"Mon  Dieti  I  M.leComte  assists  himl" 

*'  Yes,  M.  le  Cure,  old  Janot  told  it 
to  my  Pierre,  so  you  see  it  is  not  so 
bad,  after  all.  Of  course,  they  are 
neither  my  children,  nor  your  —  Par- 
don, M.  le  Cur6,  nor  the  children  of 
M.  Cabot,  nor  the  children  of  M.  le 
Propri^taire  de  la  Croix  Verte." 

"What  is  that  you  are  saying,  M. 
Jacquelon  ? "  And  the  Propri^taire  de 
la  Croix  Verte,  wiping  his  hands  vigor- 
ously on  a  very  dirty  towel,  advanced 
toward  the  two  who  were  conducting 
the  above  spirited  conversation,  seated 
at  a  small  pine  table  in  the  dining- 
room,  bar-room,  kitchen,  reception-room, 
all  in  one,  of  La  Croix  Verte. 

The  place  as  well  as  the  occupants 
was  a  study  for  an  artist.  A  long 
low  room,  with  smoke-browned  rafters, 
abundantly  festooned  with  cobwebs,  and 
decorated  with  strings  of  onions,  dried 
herbs,  sausages,  and  long-necked  squash. 
Four  small  windows,  the  broken  panes 
patched  with  paper  and  cloth,  and  the 
whole  nearly  opaque  with  dirt  and  flies, 
partially  admitted  the  golden  rays  of  a 
June  sunset.  At  the  far  end  was  a 
chtminie  de  cuisine,  its  square  holes  filled 
6 


with  brightly  burning  charcoal,  and  sur- 
rounded with  copper  pots  and  pans. 
Before  it  stood  a  fat,  florid  woman,  with 
her  blue  frock  pinned  up  over  her  jupon, 
so  OS  to  display  a  pair  of  stout  ankles 
arrayed  in  red  stockings  and  wooden 
shoes.  She  was  frying  liver,  varying 
the  occupation  by  now  and  then  tap- 
ping with  her  greasy  knife  tho  tow- 
head  of  a  dirty  urchin.  This  was 
Madame  la  Propri^taire  de  In  Croix 
Verf,e.  Along  each  side  of  tho  walls 
that  made  the  length  of  tho  room  were 
two  rows  of  pine  tables,  stained  and 
greasy.  When  a  guest  of  any  impor- 
tance wished  to  dine,  a  coarse  cloth  was 
put  into  requisition,  but  ordinarily  they 
were  used  bare,  unless  tho  litter  of  beer- 
mugs,  cheese-rinds,  and  sausngc-skins, 
mixed  with  greasy,  torn  cards  and  much- 
abused  dominos,  could  be  said  to  cover 
them.  Across  the  comer,  near  th« 
cheminie  de  cuisine,  was  placed  a  long 
table  which  served  for  a  coimter.  It 
was  surmounted  with  a  red  desk,  on 
wliich  lay  a  torn  and  dirty  account- 
book,  a  well-thumbed  almanac,  a  dusty 
inkstand,  and  some  very  bad  pens.  The 
seat  of  honor  behind  the  desk,  a  three- 
legged  stool,  was  usually  occupied  by 
M.  le  Proprid'tuire,  when  he  was  not 
engaged  in  dispensing  beer  from  a  cask 
in  the  corner,  or  absintho  from  some  very 
suspicious-looking  bottles  on  a  shelf  fas- 
tened to  the  wall.  A  dozen  or  more  fat 
pigeons  that  had  been  hatched  in  the 
charcoal  bin  under  the  chemin'ee  de  cui- 
sine waddled  about  upon  the  dirty  tiles 
and  disputed  for  the  crumbs  with  several 
children,  cats,  and  dogs. 

On  the  afternoon  of  which  we  write 
there  was  an  unusual  number  of  guests 
at  La  Croix  Verte.  Nearly  every  table 
was  filled  with  a  rough  but  good-na- 
tured quartette  of  peasants  and  fisher- 
men, for  it  was  the  fete  of  St.  Peter 
and  St.  Paul,  and  most  of  them  were 
breaking  their  fast  the  first  time  for 
the  day.  Some  were  partaking  of  the 
savory  fHed  liver  which  the  smiling 
landlady  dispensed,  hot  and  tender,  sea- 
soning it  with  a  few  complimentary 
words  to  each ;  while  others,  who  were 
not  able  to  afford  the  luxury  of  liver, 
adapted  themselves  to  their  limited 
circumstances,  and  laughed  and  joked 
over  their  brown  loaf,  sausage,  and  beer, 


66 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


vithout  envy  or  hatred  townrd  those 
who  fared  better.  A  few,  whose  empty 
pockets  did  not  allow  their  owners  to 
regale  themselves  cVen  on  the  choice 
beer  and  sausage  of  La  Croix  Verte, 
turned  their  bucks  resolutely  on  the 
foasters  and  fixed  their  attention  on  a 
noisy  group  of  ecarte  players,  who  now 
and  then  moistened  their  hoarse  throats 
with  sips  of  absinthe  or  aifi  noir.  At 
a  table  near  the  door  sat  M.  lo  Cur6 
and  M.  Jacqiiolon,  the  doctor,  engaged 
in  the  animated  conversation  related 
above. 

M.  le  Curd  of  Sarzeau  was  one  of 
those  peculiarly  beastly  looking  men 
whom  it  seems  as  if  the  Creator  had  in 
irony  endowed  with  speech.  His  face 
was  in  shape  like  a  pear,  the  smaller 
point  representing  the  forehead  ;  little 
cunning  gray  eyes  protruded,  lobster- 
like,  from  under  a  flat,  low  brow ;  while 
a  pug  nose  and  large  mouth  with  hang- 
ing underlip,  revealing  two  rows  of 
irregular  decayed  teeth,  made  the  physi- 
ognomy of  M.  le  Curd  anything  but 
prepossessing.  This  singular  face  sur- 
mounted a  figtire  about  as  symmetrical 
as  a  toad's,  clothed  in  a  rusty  cassock, 
the  front  and  sleeves  well  polished  with 
an  accumulation  of  dirt,  snuff,  and 
grease ;  being  rather  short  and  well 
fringed,  it  revealed  a  pair  of  immense 
feet  covered  with  coarse  shoes,  which 
slipped  up  and  down  when  he  walked, 
exposing  large  holes  in  both  heels  of 
his  coarse  black  stockings.  It  was  dif- 
ficult to  tell  whether  he  wore  the  iisual 
linen  band  around  his  throat,  as  his 
banging  checks  concealed  the  place 
where  it  should  have  been  seen,  making 
him  look  as  though  his  head  was  set 
on  his  shoulders  without  a  neck.  From 
this  not  exaggerated  description  of  the 
personal  appearance  of  M.  le  Cure,  one 
must  not  suppose  that  he  looked  pov- 
erty stricken.  On  the  contrary,  every 
wrinkle  of  his  face  and  every  fold  of 
his  greasy  robe  over  his  aldermanic 
proportions  gave  evidence  of  good  cheer, 
meat  in  plenty,  with  a  not  too  rigorous 
attention  to  fasts,  and  good  wine  when 
he  found  it  necessary  to  obey  the  ad- 
vice of  St.  Paul,  which  was  very  often. 
There  were  a  few  among  the  miserable 
inhabitants  of  Sarzeau  who  were  not 
so  steeped   in  poverty  aa  to  be  afraid 


to  express  their  opinion,  and  they, 
among  other  things,  durod  to  hint  that 
the  life  of  M.  le  Cure  was  not  one  of 
stern  self-sacrifice,  that  a  love  of  good 
living,  and  even  a  little  moat  on  fasts, 
were  not  the  only  venial  sins  he  had 
to  lay  before  the  Great  Absolver.  How- 
ever, we  will  not  repeat  the  goB.s!p  of 
Sarzeau.  It  is  enough  for  our  purpose 
to  say,  that  M.  lo  Cure  was  just  the 
man  to  oppose  any  innovation  or  effort 
to  enlighten  the  poor  flock  that  he  led 
in  the  paths  of  ignorance  and  want. 
That  very  afternoon  he  had  walked 
over  to  the  Convent  of  St.  Gildas  de 
Rhuys,  and  there,  after  taking  a  glass 
of  wine  with  the  lady  superior,  he  had 
laid  his  grievances  before  her.  Of  course 
she  sympathized  with  him,  and  agreed 
with  him  that  M.  le  Comte  de  (Clermont 
and  his  hunchbacked  servant  could 
only  be  emissaries  of  Satan,  sent  to 
lead  astray  the  feeble  flock  of  M.  lo 
Cur^. 

The  priest  was  a  dependant  on  the 
old  Convent  of  St.  Gildas,  and  so  he 
never  dared  to  censure  the  ladies  in 
charge ;  but  now,  feeling  that  ho  had 
serious  cause  for  complaint,  after  several 
hems  and  hahs,  he  hesitatingly  ob- 
served "that  these  innovations  were 
the  result  of  their  opening  the  time- 
honored  Convent  of  St.  Gildas  for 
boarders  during  the  bathing-season ; 
thereby  introducing  strangers  into  the 
until  then  quiet  and  retired  town  of 
Sarzeau." 

The  lady  superior  did  not  at  all  like 
this  reflection  on  her  management, 
which  she  considered  extremely  clever 
and  judicious.  As  the  impoverished 
treasury  of  St.  Gildas  was  much  in 
need  of  replenishing,  she  had  thought 
of  nothing  more  legitimate  than  that  of 
offering  a  few  ladies,  during  the  bathing- 
season,  a  convenient  home,  which  the 
dirty  town  of  Sarzeau  ould  not  afford 
them,  for  which  she  received  an  ample 
compensation,  that  rendered  her  poor 
nuns  more  comfortable  during  the  long, 
rigorous  months  of  the  winter  that 
sweeps  so  fiercely  over  the  dreary  pe- 
ninsula of  Rhuys.  In  consideration  of 
the  necessity,  and  her  wisdom  in  util- 
izing the  empty  rooms  of  tho  old  con- 
vent, she  believed  she  merited  tho 
greatest    praise    of    M.    lo   Cur6,   in- 


T 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


6t 


on,  and  they, 
'cd  to  hint  that 
wuH  not  one  of 
a  lovo  of  good 
I  meat  on  fasts, 
ial  sins  he  had 
Ahsolvcr.  How- 
t  the  gossip  of 
for  our  purpose 
•6  was  just  the 
ovation  or  effort 
ock  that  he  Jed 
nnce  and  want, 
ho  had  walked 
f  St.    Gildas  do 

taking  a  glass 
superior,  ho  had 
B  her.  Of  course 
him,  and  agreed 
mte  de  Clermont 

servant  could 
Satan,  sent  to 
flock  of  M.  lo 

pendant  on  the 
Idas,  and  so  he 

e  the  ladies  in 
ing  that  ho  had 
lint,  after  several 
hesitatingly  ob- 
innovations  were 
)ening  the  time- 

St.    Gildas    for 

batliing-season ; 
Tangers  into  the 

retired  town  of 

id  not  at  all  like 
er  management, 
extremely  clever 
he  impoverished 
IS  was  much  in 
she  had  thought 
mte  than  that  of 
iring  the  bathing- 
home,  which  the 

•Duld  not  afford 
eceived  an  ample 
ndered  her  poor 

during  the  long, 
the  winter  that 
r  the  drearj'  pe- 

consideration  of 

wisdom  in  ntil- 
)  of  the  old  eon- 
he  merited  the 
il.    lo   Cur6,   in- 


Btcad  of  his  imjust  censure.  Therefore 
It  was  with  no  very  gentle  voice  that 
she  replied,  "  Pardon,  M.  le  Cur*,  but 
we  arc  nil  apt  to  beli  ■  others  to 
be  the  cause  of  our  troubius  instead  of 
ourselves.  Now,  it  seems  to  me,  that 
if  you  had  kept  a  closer  watch  over 
your  flock,  it  would  not  have  strayed 
away,  and  fallen  into  the  jaws  of  the 
wolves.  (luide  and  protect  those  who 
are  given  into  your  charge  as  well  as  I 
d(j  those  who  are  given  to  me,  and  you 
will  find  that  they  will  not  bo  led  away 
by  strangers  to  strange  doctrines." 

After  this  wholesome  advice,  the  su- 
perior dismissed  M.  le  Cur«S  very  coldly, 
and  he  walked  back  to  Sarzeau  in  a 
towering  passion.  Entering  La  Croix 
Verto  for  his  evening  dish  of  gossip, 
washed  down  with  absinthe,  he  en- 
cotmtcred  his  natural  adversary,  M. 
Jacquelon ;  and  then  ens'ied  the  con- 
versation which  was  interrupted  by  M. 
le  Propri^taire,  who  demanded  of  M. 
Jacquelon  what  he  was  saying. 

"  We  were  speaking  of  the  school 
that  M.  le  Comte  has  established  in  the 
great  hall  of  the  chateau,"  replied  M. 
Jacquelon,  with  much  deference ;  for 
all  the  town,  including  M.  le  (Jur^,  M. 
le  Docteur,  and  M.  lo  Avocat,  were 
deferential  to  M.  le  Propri6taire  de  la 
Croix  Verte,  who  held  a  despotic  sway 
over  his  greasy  kingdom.  No  one  could 
afford  to  quarrel  with  him,  and  thereby 
lose  the  only  amusement  the  dreary 
little  town  offered,  —  that  of  sipping 
absinthe  and  coffee,  and  gossiping  over 
cards  and  dominos  in  the  bar-room  of 
La  Croix  Verte. 

M.  Jacquelon  and  M.  le  Propri^taire 
were  the  best  of  friends,  thereby  illus- 
trating the  adage  that  "contrasts  are 
pleasing,"  for  no  two  human  beings 
were  ever  created  more  dissimilar.  M. 
le  Propri^taire  was  tall  and  stout,  with 
a  neck  like  an  ox,  a  broad,  good-natured 
face,  all  pink  save  a  little  tuft  of  very 
black  hair  on  his  chin  ;  wide-open  black 
eyes,  and  strong,  white  teeth.  He  usu- 
ally wore  a  pair  of  greasy  trousers,  that 
once  had  been  white,  a  blue  shirt,  with 
the  sleeves  rolled  up  to  the  shoulders, 
displaying  a  pair  of  brawny  arms,  dark 
with  Esau's  covering;  and  around  his 
throat  he  displayed  a  scarlet  kerchief, 
tied  in  a  loose  knot.     In  recalling  my 


impression  of  M.  le  Docteur  of  Sarzeau, 
as  he  once  appeared  before  me,  I  can 
think  of  nothing  he  «o  much  resembled 
a«  an  unfledged  gosling.  His  great 
bald  head,  with  a  little  fringe  of  yellow 
hair,  low  forehead,  beak-like  nose,  and 
retreating  chin,  were  connected  to  his 
body  by  the  smallest,  longest  neck  ever 
seen ;  which  seemed  to  be  stifl'ened,  to 
support  his  head,  by  white  folds  of 
starched  cloth  bound  tightly  arotmd  in 
a  way  that  suggested  strangulation. 
His  shoulders  were  naiTow  and  sloping, 
his  arms  and  legs  short,  and  his  very 
long  body  was  rotund  at  the  base.  A 
yellow-green  coat,  buttotied  close,  cov- 
ered his  upper  proportions,  and  reddish- 
yellow  breeches  completed  his  resem- 
blance to  the  above-named  fowl. 

The  greatest  pleasure  that  cheered 
the  laborious  life  of  M.  le  Propri^taire 
was  to  listen  to  a  verbal  combat  be- 
tween M.  le  Cur*  and  M.  Jacquelon. 
So  on  this  evening,  as  the  conversa- 
tion warmed,  he  approached,  not  so 
much  to  put  the  question  he  had  asked, 
as  to  overhear  the  discussion.  When 
M.  Jacquelon  informed  him  of  its  sub- 
ject, he  merely  nodded  his  head,  dis- 
playing all  his  white  teeth  in  a  good- 
natured  smile,  as  he  said,  "  Go  on,  go 
on,  my  friends,  and  I  will  listen."  So 
he  planted  himself  before  them,  his  feet 
wide  apart,  and  his  folded  arms  cov- 
ered with  a  dirty  napkin,  spread  out  as 
if  to  dry ;  while  he  bent  his  head  for- 
ward, and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  two 
with  the  satisfied  expression  of  one  who 
expects  a  rich  treat. 

For  a  long  time  the  war  of  words 
raged  between  M.  Jacquelon  and  M.  le 
Cr.r6,  uninterrupted  by  M.  le  Proprid- 
taire,  until  he,  seeing  that  the  priest  was 
overwhelming  the  liberal  opinions  of 
the  little  doctor  with  an  immense  volley 
of  rather  contradictory  theological  argu- 
ments, he  stepped  in  to  the  rescue  of 
his  friend,  and  declared  boldly  that  he 
approved  of  the  step  M.  le  Comte  had 
taken  toward  the  civilization  of  the 
little  savages  of  Sarzeau. 

"Farbleu!"  he  cried,  bringing  the 
great  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a 
force  that  made  the  Cur6  and  the  doctor 
jump  nearly  from  their  seats,  "  I  wish 
M.  le  Comte  would  ask  for  my  children, 
he  should  have  them." 


G8 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  8PEAB. 


M.  le  Cur^  wiped  his  damp  forehead 
with  his  soiled  blue  handkerchief,  took 
slowly  a  pinch  of  snulf,  passing  the  box 
to  M.  le  I'roprietaire  to  show  him  that 
h(!  entertained  no  hard  feelings  on  ac- 
count of  a  dift'erence  of  opinion,  and 
then  said  with  a  little  deprecating  tre- 
mor in  his  voice,  "You  forget,  mon- 
siunr,  — you  forget  that  your  first  duty 
to  your  children  is  to  have  them  well 
instructed  in  the  religion  of  Mother 
Church,  and  you  forget  that  your  words 
uro  a  reflection  on  me.  Have  I  then  so 
neglected  my  sacred  office  as  Cur6  of 
Sarzeau,  that  you  find  it  necessary  to 
give  the  lambs  of  my  flock  to  a  strange 
shepherd  1  I  have  no  doubt  that  M.  le 
Comte  do  Clermont  is  a  Christian  gen- 
tleman, but  I  believe  the  hunchback  is 
a  knave,  deformed  in  punishment  for 
some  crime,  and  therefore  dangerous  to 
the  spiritual  welfare  of  my  people." 

What  reply  M.  le  Propri6taire  would 
have  made  to  this  I  cannot  say,  for  at 
that  moment  a  general  movement  de- 
noted that  some  one  of  distinction  was 
entering. 

"  M.  lo  Comte  do  Clermont,  M.  le 
Comtc,"  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth 
in  a  suppressed  whisper,  as  Claude,  fol- 
lowed by  Tristan,  darkened  the  low 
door. 

It  was  the  first  time  Claude  had  ever 
appeared  in  the  bar-room  of  La  Croix 
Yerte,  and  therefore  the  visit  of  so  dis- 
tinguished a  guest  caused  no  little  com- 
motion. The  landlady  unpinned  her 
frock  and  whipped  on  a  clean  apron. 
The  landlord  rolled  down  his  sleeves, 
tightened  the  knot  of  his  red  kerchief, 
gave  a  little  upward  twitch  to  his  trou- 
bcrs,  and  throwing  a  clean  napkin  over 
his  arm,  appeared  all  smiles  and  compla- 
cency before  his  new  guests ;  while  M. 
le  Cur^  was  seen  to  stoop  as  much  as 
his  corpulency  would  allow  him,  to  tuck 
his  worn  stockings  into  the  heels  of  his 
shoes,  after  which  delicate  deception  he 
stood  up,  and  holding  his  dusty  hat  over 
the  dirtiest  spot  on  the  front  of  his  cas- 
sock, he  made'  a  succession  of  little 
reverences,  half  bows  and  half  courte- 
sies ;  and  M.  Jacquelon,  craning  up  his 
long  neck,  and  bending  his  ungainly  lit- 
tle body  almost  to  a  right  angle,  walked 
forward  with  stiffened  legs,  after  the 
fashion  of  West  End  grooms  (it  had  been 


hinted  that  M.  le  Docteur  had  been  for- 
merly a  groom  to  a  Paris  physician,  and 
in  that  way  had  gained  his  medical 
knowledge),  his  short  arms  extended 
with  the  palms  up,  as  though  he  had 
something  rare  to  display  to  M.  le 
Comte. 

Claude  advanced  into  the  room  with 
a  grave  but  kind  smile,  bowed  to  M.  lo 
Propri^tairo  and  his  wife,  and  then 
walked  straight  up  to  M.  lo  Curd  and 
offered  him  his  hand. 

The  priest  looked  astonished,  then 
gratified,  at  such  a  mark  of  respect,  and 
giving  his  chubby  hand  a  little  dab  on 
the  skirt  of  his  robe,  to  wipe  off  the 
snuff,  he  eagerly  relinquished  it  to  the 
friendly  grasp  of  Claude. 

"  Will  M.  le  Comte  please,  to  be  seat- 
ed 1"  said  the  landlord,  whisking  the 
dust  off  a  chair  with  his  napkin,  and 
placing  it  at  the  table  between  the  Curd 
and  the  doctor. 

Claude  bowed  his  thanks,  took  the 
seat,  and  drew  up  another  beside  him 
for  Tristan,  at  which  they  all  looked 
surprised,  and  some  whispered,  "  M.  le 
Comte  is  an  original,  he  allows  his  ser- 
vant to  sit  in  his  presence." 

"  Will  M.  le  Comte  be  served  with 
anything  our  poor  house  affords  1 "  said 
M.  le  Propridtaire  obsequiously,  laying 
a  well-thumbed  wine-card  on  the  table. 

Claude  ordered  a  bottle  of  Ch&teau 
Margeaux,  to  which  he  helped  the  priest 
and  the  doctor  plentifully,  although  he 
scarcely  drank  himself. 

When  the  good  wine  had  raised  the 
spirits  of  the  somewhat  abashed  Curd, 
and  had  loosened  the  tongue  of  M.  Jac- 
quelon, Claude  cleverly  and  with  the 
most  conciliatory  language  introduced 
the  subject  that  had  been  under  discus- 
sion when  he  entered.  He  hod  learned 
through  Tristan  of  the  priest's  opposi- 
tion, and  as  he  did  not  wish  to  cause 
dissension  in  the  peaceful  town  of  Sar- 
zeau, he  saw  at  once  that  his  best 
chance  of  success  lay  in  securing  the 
approval  and  co-operation  of  M.  le  Curd. 
So  it  was  for  this  object  that  he  visited 
La  Croix  Verte,  and,  finding  the  recep- 
tion more  friendly  than  he  had  antici- 
pated, he  felt  encouraged  to  proceed 
with  his  negotiation. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  infringed  on  any 
of  your  privileges,  M.  le  Curd,"  he  said 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


69 


mr  had  been  for- 
is  phyaiciuu,  and 
led  his  medical 
arms  extended 
though  he  had 
splay   to    M.  le 

the  room  with 

bowed  to  M.  lo 

wife,   and  then 

M.  le  Cur^  and 

astonished,  then 
■k  of  respect,  and 
i  a  little  dab  on 
to  wipe  off  the 
uished  it  to  the 
le. 

please,  to  be  seat- 
rd,  whisking  the 
his  napkin,  and 
letween  the  Cur6 

thanks,  took  the 
>ther  beside  him 

they  all  looked 
hi8])ored,  "  M.  le 
le  allows  his  ser- 
nce." 

be  served  with 
se  affords  1"  said 
jequiously,  laying 
lard  on  the  table, 
ottle  of  Ch&teau 
)  helped  the  priest 
ully,  although  he 

e  had  raised  the 
at  abashed  Cur6, 
:ongue  of  M.  Jac- 
ly  and  with  the 
guage  introduced 
een  under  discus- 
He  had  learned 
e  priest's  opposi- 
ot  wish  to  cause 
sful  town  of  Sar- 
;e  that  his  best 
in  securing  the 
ion  of  M.  le  Cur& 
ct  that  he  visited 
inding  the  recep- 
in  he  had  antici- 
raged  to  proceed 

infringed  on  any 
le  Cur^,"  he  said 


gontly,  "  in  my  effort  to  better  a  little 
the  position  of  the  poor  and  ignorant 
about  Sarzoau.  Although  I  have  not 
until  now  had  the  pleasure  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, I  felt  sure  that  one  who 
had  tlio  welfare  of  all  humanity  at 
heart  would  sanction  whatever  I  might 
do  in  the  right  direction,  and  your  kind 
reception  now  shows  me  that  I  have  not 
been  misthkcn." 

M.  le  Proini^tairo,  who  stood  behind 
Claude's  chair,  winked  at  M.  Jacquclon, 
and  laid  his  right  forefinger  over  his 
left,  to  indicate  that  Claude  had  got 
the  best  of  M.  le  Cur6,  who,  after  hav- 
ing taken  several  pinches  of  snuff  to 
fortify  himself  for  a  reply,  was  vigor- 
ously rubbing  his  nose  and  polishing  it 
off  with  his  soiled  handkerchief  rolled 
into  a  hard  ball.  While  he  was  think- 
ing of  what  he  should  say  that  would 
not  disagree  with  his  former  remarks 
and  compromise  his  dignity,  M.  Jacque- 
lon,  drawing  his  stiff  cravat  a  little 
higher,  leaned  forward  and  said  dis- 
tinctly, "  Pardon,  M.  le  Comte,  but  I 
was  just  telling  M.  le  Cur6  that  he  was 
altogether  wrong  to  condemn  your  mo- 
tives before  he  understood  them.  And 
in  regard  to  your  religion,  I  took  the 
liberty  of  assuring  him  that  you  were  a 
good  Catholic,  as  was  also  monsieur," 
with  a  little  nod  at  Tristan,  whom  he 
was  at  a  loss  whether  to  address  as  a 
superior,  inferior,  or  equal. 

The  priest  looked  disconcerted  at  the 
inopportune  veracity  of  the  doctor's 
speech,  and  his  heavy  face  flushed  as  he 
stammered  out,  "  0  M.  le  Comte,  one 
hears  the  truth  so  perverted  !  I  —  I 
assure  you  I  suppose,  —  I  mean,  I  was 
led  to  think  that  you,  monsieur,  and 
your  young  man,  were  interfering  with 
the  religious  teaching  of  my  children, 
in  fact  that  you  were  trying  to  sow  the 
seeds  of  strange  doctrines  in  their  tender 
hearta" 

"  0,  I  understand  perfectly  !  "  said 
Claude,  calmly.  "  If  you  had  known 
that  I  desired  only  the  welfare  of  the 
people,  your  int«rest  would  have  been 
with  me,  would  it  not  1 " 

The  Cur6  confusedly  fingered  his 
glass  and  replied,  "Certainly,  certainly." 

"  I  try  to  be  a  good  Catholic,"  con- 
tinued Claude,  "and  I  do  not  believe 
our  holy  religion  need  hinder  or  prohibit 


the  inculcation  of  noble  and  liberal 
opinions  ;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  interfere 
in  any  way  with  doctrines.  I  leave 
them  to  those  better  taught  in  theology. 
You  must  know,  mon  pirr,  that  our 
country  has  need  of  strong,  self-reliant 
men,  those  whose  judgment  is  based 
upon  their  own  knowledge,  a  knowledge 
they  must  be  able  to  gather  for  them- 
selves from  the  history  df  the  past  and 
the  events  of  the  present.  The  first 
step  toward  that  end  is  to  teach  them 
to  read  and  tiien  to  furnish  them  with 
books  and  jo'irnals,  i\\\'.  their  minds 
may  be  opened  to  ideas  of  emancipation, 
that  they  may  understand  true  freedom 
to  be  the  freedom  of  one's  self  and 
one's  opinions." 

By  this  time  a  number  of  the  card- 
players  had  left  their  tables,  and  gath- 
ered around  the  debaters,  and  when 
Claude  finished  his  short  but  earnest 
speech  they  all  applauded  it  heartily. 

M.  le  Cur^  looked  discomfited,  while 
M.  Jacquelon's  broad  mouth  was  gen- 
erously stretched  in  a  grin  of  satisfac- 
tion. 

Claude  raised  his  eyes  to  the  coarso 
but  honest  faces  of  the  men  gathered 
around  him,  and  seeing  in  the  expression 
of  many  the  pathetic  history  of  a  life's 
disappointment  and  failure,  his  heart 
went  out  to  them  in  silent  sympathy 
and  pity,  mingled  with  an  earnest  desire 
to  lift  the  veil  of  ignorance  and  super- 
stition that  enshrouded  them.  "  0  my 
God  I  "  he  thought,  "  why  can  they  not 
have  a  chance  to  become  something 
more  than  beasts  1 "  Then  he  glanced 
at  the  heavy,  besotted  face  of  the  priest, 
and  felt  most  forcibly  the  bitter  contra- 
diction, the  wrong  and  deception,  there 
was  somewhere  in  the  politicid  and 
religious  economy  of  the  nation. 

"  Go  on,  M.  le  Comte,  go  on,"  cried 
the  Propri^taire,  throwing  his  arms  out 
behind  him  to  clear  a  little  more  space 
around  the  table,  —  "  go  on,  we  all  like 
to  hear  the  truth." 

"  You  mean,"  cried  the  Curi,  forget- 
ting himself  in  his  anxiety  to  keep  the 
moral  bandage  over  the  eyes  of  his  peo- 
ple,—  "  you  mean  that  you  all  like  some 
new  excitement,  anything  that  gives 
you  a  reason  for  breaking  the  laws  of 
God.  Schisms,  dissensions,  rebellions, 
are  all  against  his  divine  teaching,  and 


70 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SI'EAR. 


tho  liberty,  that  with  tho  inaiw  moons 
liconso,  cun  lead  to  nu  good." 

"  Ptirdoii,  nwn  pirt,  you  mistake  mo," 
Buid  Claude,  I  do  not  advo(!Hto  tho  lib- 
erty that  mcuuH  liceiiHe.  1  udvooato  a 
lil)crty  that  leads  to  Holf-Kuvernmont, 
founded  on  u  knowledgo  uf  one's  self 
and  of  tho  higher  needs  uf  humanity, 
and  that  lilwrty  and  that  self-govern- 
ment can  only  be  brought  almut  by 
educating  both  the  head  and  tho  hoart. 
First  wo  must  understand  ourselves, 
then  wo  must  strive  to  understand 
othora.  While  studying  tho  inexhausti- 
ble page  of  the  human  heart,  we  dis- 
cover its  needs  and  are  led  to  minister 
to  thom.  Society  based  upon  a  mutual 
desiro  to  teach  and  to  be  taught  would 
soon  become  less  arrogant,  less  egotisti- 
cal, and  less  despotic.  Therefore  1  say, 
teuch  every  man,  woman,  and  child  to 
read,  and  give  tiiem  lK)oks  freely.  Tho 
natural  good  will  assert  itself,  grow  and 
develop  into  strong,  noble  characters, 
separating  itself  from  tho  weak  and 
ignoble,  and  with  time  and  patience 
tho  reform  will  adjust  itself  to  tho  now 
rif/ivie.  This  can  only  l)o  done  by 
enlightening  humanity,  and  giving  it 
knowledge  with  its  daily  bread  ;  for  why 
should  the  body  be  surfeited  whilo  the 
soul  starves  ] " 

"  You  are  right,  you  are  right.  God 
blcBB  you,  M.  le  Comte,"  exclaimed  sev- 
eral, pressing  forward  eagerly.  "  We 
are  ignonmt,  it  is  true,  but  it  ia  not 
from  choice.  We  wish  to  learn  to  read, 
but  we  have  neither  time  nor  money." 

"  My  friends,"  cried  Claudo,  standing 
up  and  facing  the  crowd  who  were  press- 
ing around  him,  —  "  my  friends,  what 
I  can  do  for  you  I  will  do  gladly  and 
cheerfully.  You  labor  through  the  day, 
but  your  evenings  are  free,  are  they 
notr' 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  in  eager,  excited  tones. 

"  Then  come  to  the  hall  of  the  cha- 
teau, eveiy  night  if  you  like,  and  I  will 
teach  you  how  to  read,  and  supply  you 
with  books  when  you  have  learned. 
You  will  be  better  for  it,  all  of  you. 
You  will  make  l^etter  men,  better  hus- 
bands, better  fathers.    Will  you  come  1 " 

"  We  will,  we  will,"  they  all  shouted. 

The  Cur4  looked  uneasy,  but  seeing 
Claude  had  all  tho  strength  on  his  side 
be  was  obliged  to  appear  to  concede; 


MO  muttering  "  Tfmpori  parendiim "  to 
himself,  ho  said  aloud  with  us  good 
grace  us  posMible,  "  My  children,  tluH  is 
very  noble  and  generous  of  M.  le  <  'omte. 
1  hope  you  will  improve  to  the  iitniost 
such  an  excellent  opportunity  ;  and  let 
mo  entreat  you  to  think  also  of  your 
spiritual  interests,  and  not  tu  neglect 
my  teaching." 

There  was  not  one  among  tho  honest 
men  who  replied  to  the  Curb's  hypo- 
critical advice,  but  received  it  silently, 
with  winks,  nods,  and  grimaces  of  con- 
tempt behind  his  back. 

"  Sapriiti  I "  muttered  a  great,  rod- 
nosed  Hsherman,  "  there  is  more  good 
stuff  in  tho  little  finger  of  M.  lo  Comto 
than  in  all  tho  fat  paunch  of  M.  lo  Cur^, 
who  thinks  more  of  his  greasy  potage, 
absinthe,  and  ecarti,  than  he  does  of  all 
our  souls  put  together." 

"  Ah,  my  Gratien,  if  you  could  but 
grow  up  to  be  a  noble  man  like  M.  le 
Comto  ! "  said  the  landlady  to  her  eldest 
hope,  as  she  fished  a  bit  of  liver  out  of 
the  fat  she  had  let  burn  whilo  listening 
to  Claude's  earnest  words.  "  You  shall 
go  to  tho  chateau  and  learn  everything, 
and  then  perhaps  one  day  you  will 
become  as  great  a  scholar  as  M.  le 
Docteur.  Hh,  mon  enfant  f  "  And  she 
tapped  the  wide-eyed  boy  lovingly  with 
her  dripping  fork,  as  she  turned  to  take 
up  another  piece  of  the  meat  that  lay 
on  a  table  near. 

At  first  the  good-natured  face  of  M. 
le  Propridtaire  clouded  as  ho  thought  of 
the  custom  he  might  lose  from  Claude's 
proposal ;  but  soon  a  philanthropic 
desire  for  the  good  of  his  townsmen 
overcame  every  selfish  thought,  and  he 
joined  as  heartily  as  the  others  in 
applauding  the  noble  offer  of  M.  le 
Comte. 

Of  course,  M.  Jacqnelon,  being  a 
professional  man,  prided  himself  on  & 
liberal  education,  and  therefore  was  not 
slow  in  sustaining  the  opinions  he  had 
advanced  before  Claude  entered. 

In  this  amicable  way  matters  adjusted 
themselves,  much  to  the  gratification  of 
the  young  regenerator,  who  had  not 
dared  to  hope  for  so  easy  a  conquest. 

It  was  a  happy  moment  for  Tristan. 
He  was  delighted  to  see  such  a  demon- 
stration of  approval  from  the  people 
who  a  few  days  before  had  looked  upon 


A  CROWN   FROM  THE  Sl'EAIl. 


fl 


i  partndnm  "  to 

d    with    UH    K*>ud 

cliildroii,  tliJH  JH 

1  t)l'M.  lo  <'()into. 

to  tiio   iitniuHt 

>i-tuuity ;  ami  lut 

Ilk  uIhu  uf  your 

uut  to  uoglout 

iiioiig  tho  lionoHt 
10  L'urt'a  liypo- 
uivod  it  silently, 
griuiacos  of  cuu- 
I. 

ed  a  great,  rod- 
iru  iH  uioro  goud 
of  M.  lo  Comte 
ich  of  M.  lo  Cur4, 
is  greasy  potagt, 
nil  lie  dooH  of  all 

if  you  could  but 
e  man  liko  M.  le 
lady  to  her  eldest 
it  of  liver  out  of 
rn  while  listening 
rds.  "  You  shall 
learn  everything, 
10  day  you  will 
icholar  oh  M.  le 
fant  t "  And  she 
boy  lovingly  with 
he  turned  to  take 
le  meat  that  lay 

itured  face  of  M. 

as  ho  thought  of 

ose  from  Claude's 

a    philanthropic 

}f  his   townsmen 

I  thought,  and  he 

the    others    iu 

offer  of  M.  le 

iqiielon,  being  a 
led  himself  on  & 
therefore  was  not 
opinions  he  had 
Je  entered, 
matters  adjusted 
le  gratification  of 
r,  who  had  not 
^sy  a  conquest, 
nent  for  Tristan. 
«  such  a  demon- 
from  the  people 
had  looked  upou 


" 


thorn  with  (lintnist  ami  nuspicion.     Si 
lotitly  ho  tiirnud   his  grout  uycs,  tilled 
with    tears  of  joy,    to   tho   face  of  his 
miistcr,  who  sriiiiud  and  nodded  intelii 
gently,  for  thoy  understood  each  other 
without  words. 

"  Now,  my  good  friends,"  baid  Claude, 
"  lot  us  all  sup  to<{uthor  as  a  pledge  of 
good  feeliii;^  and  LOiiimon  interest.  —  M. 
le  I'roprietiiiro,  place  tho  best  you  huvo 
upon  the  table,  tho  best  meats,  and  tho 
bust  wine,  and  you  and  your  good  wifu 
sit  with  us." 

For  uii  hour  after  there  was  such  a 
clattering  of  glasses,  knives,  and  plates, 
such  bursts  of  good-natured  laughter, 
such  luiatTucted  mirth,  as  was  seldom 
heard  at  La  Croix  Verte. 

Tho  sujiper  was  nearly  over,  and 
Claude,  with  Tristan,  had  risen  to  re- 
tire, when  a  dusty  travelling-carriage, 
with  tired  horses  and  sunburnt  driver, 
drew  up  before  tho  door,  aud  two  men 
alighted.  At  the  first  glance  it  was 
easy  to  perceive  that  they  wore  persons 
of  no  common  pretensions.  The  eldest, 
who  was  fifty-five  or  sixty,  had  a  tall, 
soldierly  figure,  a  handsome,  oxpressivo 
foco,  thick,  curling  gray  hair,  and  pier- 
cing black  'yes.  Tho  other,  who  was 
less  than  thirty,  was  slight  and  fair, 
with  meli\ncholy  blue  eyes,  a  girlish 
month,  shaded  by  a  thin,  flaxen  mus- 
tache, and  extremely  small  feet  and 
hands.  Their  nationality  was  very  soon 
determined ;  for  both  simultaneously 
exclaimed  in  English,  "  Good  heavens ! 
what  a  place !  Where  are  we  to  sleep 
to-night  1"  Then  turning  to  tho  Pro- 
pri^taire,  the  eldest  said  in  perfect 
Parisian  French,  "  My  good  man,  have 
you  a  comfortable  apartment  for  us  1 " 

"  Certainly,  certainly  ;  will  monsieur 
please  to  follow  me.  I  have  an  elegant 
suite  above,  which  is  entirely  at  the 
disposal  of  monsieur,  if  he  will  kindly 
do  me  the  favor  to  accept  it,"  said  M. 
le  Propri^taire,  with  professional  insin- 
cerity ;  leading  the  way,  as  he  spoke,  to 
a  dirty  flight  of  stairs  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room. 

As  they  passed,  without  glancing  in 
his  direction,  Claude  heard  the  younger 
man  say,  "  I  wish  those  stupid  old  nuns 
at  St.  Gildas  were  a  little  less  monastic. 
One  would  think  they  believed  all  men 
Don  Juan's  disciples,  by  the  way  they 


hurried  us  ulf  after  they  socurcd  tho 
Ltilies.  It  would  have  Ixsen  jolly  to 
have  tiiken  up  our  uIhmIo  in  the  old 
iilibey." 

The  remainder  of  tho  remark  ('IuikIo 
did  not  hear  ;  for  us  they  iiiouiited  tho 
stairciisu  after  tho  landlord  ho  .iliook 
hands  with  the  doctor  and  thu  Ciir6, 
inviting  thum  to  dine  with  him  tho 
next  day,  and  bowing  kindly  to  hia 
now  friends,  he  went  out  into  tho  soft 
.Juno  night,  with  an  unaccountable  feel- 
ing of  sorrow  and  dissatistuction  in  hia 
heart ;  even  though  ho  had  ucliieved 
a  conquest  over  the  Curi,  and  had 
gained  tho  esteem  and  good-will  of  tho 
people  of  tho  town,  he  felt  dlHiouraged 
and  oppressed,  for  something  iu  tho 
voices  or  faces  of  tho  strangers  had 
awakened  emotions  he  could  not  banish. 


PART   FOUIITH. 

ALMOST   A   UEFEAT. 

The  next  morning  after  tho  supper 
at  La  Croix  Verte  Claude  arose  with  a 
dull  headache,  and  with  tho  dissatisfied 
feeling  of  the  night  before.  Tristan 
looked  anxiously  at  his  palo  face  and 
heavy  eyes,  when  he  brought  him  his 
cofl'ee,  and  suggested  u  smart  walk  in 
tho  clear  morning  air. 

"You  aro  right,  mon  ami,  it  is  just 
what  I  need,  and  it  will  ptit  me  in 
better  condition  at  onco.  A  flutter  of 
Mother  Nature's  pure  breath  over  a 
feverish  forehead  cools  it  quicker  than 
a  compress  of  Farina's  best  eau-de- 
cologne.  I  will  start  at  once  and  be 
back  to  breakfast  with  a  splendid  appe- 
tite.  And  while  I  am  off  to  the  shore, 
you  must  go  into  town  and  find  Jerome 
tho  carpenter.  There  must  bo  some 
more  benches  put  up  and  some  rough 
tables  provided  for  my  poor  students  to 
sit  at.  0  Tristan,  my  good  soul !  can 
you  tell  me  what  has  become  of  ray 
last  night's  enthusiasm  ]  I  regret  al- 
ready my  philanthropic  undertaking. 
My  heart  is  heavy,  my  head  dull,  and 
I  am  a  coward,  for  I  shrink  fi-om  a  duty 
that  I  boasted  to  myself  I  uod  strength 
enough  to  perform.  Pray  for  mo,  my 
boy,  that  I  may  not  fall  just  when  I 


72 


A  CnOWN   FROM  THE  SI'KAIl. 


lifiTO  tnoat  need  to  stand.  Adieu  until 
breiikfiiHt." 

When  Cltuido  left  iUe  j^ato  of  tho 
•hiitcaii,  ho  tiinu'd  IiIm  face  toward  St. 
(JildiiN,  and  waliiin^  tlirou^li  tiiu  Huhiirlm 
of  tho  town  cariio  out  on  to  tho  liurrcn 
and  rocky  utiiori',  from  whoHO  hi^hcHt 
Hutnmit  rJHo  thu  toworH  that  surround 
tho  old  aliltoy  iiuniortulizi'd  uh  tho  rctroat 
of  AlH'>li\rd.  It  luid  always  posscsHcd  a 
doop  interest  for  him,  hocauso  it  had 
l)oun  tliu  gravo  of  a  k*'''''^'^  diHap|K)int- 
mcnt  and  a  cruel  sorrow.  But  tliis 
inornin<;  as  ho  looked  at  tho  turrets 
outlined  againHt  tho  clear  sky,  and 
gilded  with  Juno  sunlight,  a  strango 
fooling  drew  his  heart  with  his  eyes 
to  ono  of  tho  narrow  upper  windows, 
from  which  leaned  a  fresh  pure  face. 
It  was  a  face  ho  had  never  seen  before, 
a  very  lovely  face,  yet  it  did  not  attract 
him  as  did  a  whito  hand  that  lay  ca- 
ressingly on  tho  brown  braids  encircling 
tho  head  like  a  coronet.  Tho  hand 
belonged  to  some  ono  within  the  room, 
whoso  faco  and  llguro  ho  did  not  see ; 
still  ho  felt  OH  though  tho  slender  fin- 
gers hud  pressed  upon  his  heart  and 
stilled  its  beating. 

Tho  eyes  of  tho  girl  were  fixed  oar- 
oostly  on  tho  shore  below  the  convent, 
and  Claude,  following  tho  direction  of 
hor  gftzo,  saw  there,  leisurely  walking 
along  tho  beach,  the  two  strangers  who 
the  night  before  had  arrived  at  La 
Croix  Verte.  Ho  caught  a  glimpse  of 
tho  white  hand  waving  a  welcome, 
which  was  returned  by  the  gentlemen. 
And  ho  saw  the  lovely  face  tunied 
upward  to  the  owner  of  the  fair  hand, 
with  an  eager  entreaty  that  seemed  to 
say,  "  They  are  coming,  let  us  go  to 
meet  them." 

Claude  turned  away  toward  Sarzeau 
with  a  feeling  of  loneliness  and  isola- 
tion which  he  thought  would  nievcr 
again  revive  within  his  heart.  The 
fresh  breeze,  the  clear  sunlight,  the 
sportive  waves  that  rippled  upon  the 
sand  and  then  retreated  with  bewitch- 
ing grace,  the  gentle  twitter  of  the 
birds  that  built  their  nests  in  the  grim 
rock  J,  the  many  familiar  voices  of  na- 
ture, awoke  no  responsive  thrill  within 
his  sad  soul,  neither  had  they  power 
to  soothe  his  feverish  restlessness.  To 
avoid  the  strangers  who  were  advancing 


toward  hitn  ho  climbed  up  tho  rookj 
steep  to  tho  (^iHtio  of  Sucinio,  and 
stood  there  a  long  time  conteniplating 
the  great  round  towen*,  built  in  fciulal 
times  by  tho  Rod  Duke  of  Brittany, 
while  ho  thought  mournfully  of  tho 
inipotonce  of  man,  tho  insigniticanco  of 
his  hopes,  fears,  and  disappointments. 
"  They  pass  away,"  ho  said  sadly,  — 
"  they  pass  away,  and  tho  s[)ot  that  gave 
i)irth  to  one  generation  stands  to  wit- 
ness the  dissolution  and  decay  of  many 
Huccessive  ones.  How  small  a  handful 
of  dust  must  now  remain  of  tho  haughty 
Red  Duke  I  And  the  bones  of  tho  bravo 
(.'onstablo  do  Uichemont,  who  first  saw 
tho  light  here,  fill  but  a  littlu  space  in 
his  proud  tomb.  And  yet  these  walls 
stand,  and  time  as  it  passes  leaves  but 
few  traces  upon  thcin.  The  strunger 
goes  by  and  looks  up  at  tho  ivy  on  the 
battlements,  waving  a  welcome  to  him 
in  tho  place  of  the  fair  hands  that 
greeted  the  returning  warrior  moro 
than  six  hundred  yeara  ago." 

Was  lifo  moro  tragic  once  than  it  is 
now  1  Did  tho  heroic  souls  who  strug- 
gled over  tho  sands  of  Quiboron  only 
to  bo  driven  back  into  tho  sea  by  tho 
indomitable  Hoche  sufTer  any  keener 
I)ain  at  their  failure  than  did  Claude 
on  this  morning  when  ho  looked  again 
on  the  disappointment  of  his  life  1  Did 
tho  brave  Sombreuil,  who  with  desper- 
ate courage  drew  up  his  little  band  fur 
the  last  conflict,  make  any  firmer  re- 
solves, any  stronger  determination  to 
conquer  his  enemy,  than  did  Claude 
to  overcome  and  subdue  his  regrets  and 
desires  1  I  think  not.  And  yet  tho 
world  calls  them  heroes,  and  weeps  over 
their  sad  fato,  but  it  has  no  tears,  no 
pity,  for  one  who  is  vanquished  in  a 
combat  with  the  passions. 

When  Claude,  returning,  reached  the 
gate  of  the  chateau,  he  felt  moro  de- 
pressed and  disheartened  than  he  did 
on  setting  out.  Even  the  intention  of 
doing  something  for  the  improvement 
and  happiness  of  others  brought  him  no 
comfort,  for  he  now  thought  of  the  labor 
of  the  coming  evening  as  of  a  task  fool- 
ishly imposed  upon  himself  in  a,monient 
of  excitement,  through  a  sudden  access 
of  generosity.  Entering  the  court  ho 
saw  old  Jauot  sitting  on  a  stone  by  the 
fountain,   picking  over  oseille  for  tho 


.1^ .^. 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  HPMAR. 


7S 


rd   II  |)  tlio  rocky 
of    Siirinio,    (uid 
i(<  ('<)nti'tn|ilutiiiK 
-M,  built  in  t'ciuliil 
iiUo  of   Hrittui)}-, 
oiirnfiilly   of  tlio 
iiiHii(iiitluancu  uf 
ili!4U|)|)()intincntH. 
10  Hiiid    Hiully,  — 
ho  R[)ut  that  gave 
xi  BtniuU  to  wit- 
id  dcciiy  of  many 
Hniall  u  handful 
ill  of  tho  hau);hty 
UL's  of  tlio  hravo 
)nt,  wlio  first  saw 
b  a  littlo  npaco  in 
d  yet  tlieso  Wiilis 
passes  leaves  but 
II.     Tho   Rtruiij,'cT 
at  tho  ivy  on  the 
wcleonio  to  hi  in 
fair   hands   that 
g    warrior    nioro 
LiTi  ago." 

ic  once  than  it  is 
3  souls  who  sti-ug- 
of  Quibcron  only 
:o  tho  sea  by  tho 
uffer   nny   keonor 
than  did  Claude 
1  ho  looked  ogain 
t  of  his  life  1     Did 
who  with  dcsper- 
lis  little  band  for 
CO  nny  firmer  re- 
determination to 
than  did   Claude 
uo  his  regrets  and 
it.     And   yet   tho 
es,  and  weeps  over 
has  no  tears,  no 
vanquished  in  a 
lions. 

•ning,  reached  the 
he  felt  more  do- 
med than  he  did 
1  the  intention  of 
the  improvement 
*8  brought  him  no 
Dught  of  the  labor 
;  as  of  a  task  fool- 
nself  in  a,mon)ent 
\i  a  sudden  access 
ing  the  court  ho 
3n  a  stone  by  the 
ir  oseiUe  for  tho 


dinner  ho  had  stupidly  invited  tho 
Cur<i  and  M.  Jacqiioloii  to  partaku  of. 

When  (ho  old  man  saw  his  muster, 
he  lookud  ii|)  and  said  in  his  thin,  uoiii- 
pliitiiiig  voice,  "  Too  many  cliaiinos, 
too  iimuy  changes,  M.  lo  Coiute.  Wo 
are  too  olil,  my  Nanette  oiul  mo,  to 
attend  to  all  theso  things.  If  M.  le 
Cur6  of  Suizouu  and  M.  lo  Doctcur 
must  be  invited  to  dinner,  nionsiour 
must  find  another  cook,  my  Nanette  is 
too  old.  This  is  a  fine  change  to  turn 
tho  prreiit  hail  into  a  school  for  tho 
cauaille.  Who  is  to  open  tho  gate  to  lot 
them  in  and  out  1  I  am  too  old  and 
too  lame  to  do  it,  M.  le  Comte." 

"  Don't  fret,  my  good  man,  don't  fret, 
you  need  not  do  it ;  Tristan  will  find 
another  man,"  replied  (.'laudo  sharply, 
for  tho  old  servant's  complaints  annoyed 
him  like  the  repeated  prick  of  a  pin  in 
tender  flesh  ;  yet  it  was  so  littlo  to  lose 
his  temper  for  that  ho  felt  angry  at 
himself,  and  thought,  "  Bah  !  what  a 
beast  I  am  to  speak  harshly  to  that 
poor  old  wretch,  who  has  long  ago  for- 
gotten what  ho  know  before  I  was  born, 
and  who  has  lived  hero  so  many  years  in 
undisturbed  possession  that  ho  believes 
himself  tho  owner.  I  should  despise 
myself  for  being  disturbed  by  tho  fan- 
cies of  a  child,  and  ho  is  a  child  with  a 
burden  of  more  than  eighty  years  press- 
ing upon  him."  With  this  severe  self- 
reproach,  he  tried  to  sp^^ak  more  pleas- 
antly to  Nanette,  who  mot  him  at  the 
door,  telling  him  breakfast  was  waiting 
him.     A  French  breakfast  is  at  midday. 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  you  are  always  gay !  " 
oho  said,  as  ho  entered.  "  Well,  at  your 
age  one  can  bo  gay  and  happy  both,  but 
when  one  is  old  he  can  be  happy,  but 
never  gay.  Poor  old  man,"  glancing 
fondly  at  Janot,  "  poor  old  dear,  he  is  so 
cross  this  morning  because  I  told  him 
ho  could  not  see  the  decayed  leaves  in 
the  oieille.  He  thinks  ho  is  young, 
monsieur.  You  know  it  is  hard  to 
remember  that  one's  life  is  all  behind 
one  ;  so  I  humor  his  fiincies,  I  let  him 
go  over  it,  monsieur,  I  let  him  go  over 
it  to  please  him,  but  I  do  it  all  after 
him.  Tho  fowls  are  all  dressed,  —  fine 
fat  ones  too.  Tristan  wont  to  market 
this  morning  and  picked  out  the  best, 
but  he  paid  a  half-sou  too  much  the 
pound,  and  without  breaking  the  legs  to 


SCO  if  they  wore  tcndi'r.  Only  think, 
monsi('iir,ofi>iu*  buying  chickens  without 
lireiiking  tlio  legs.  The  pmir  hiiiicliback 
has  a  very  kind  heart,  nioiisicMir,  a  very 
kind  heart,  but  he  is  an  stupid  as  » 
turtle.  You  know,  monsieur,  M.  le 
Cur6  likes  a  good  dinner,  and  ho  shall 
have  Olio,  for  Niiiietto  knows  how  to 
cook  to-day  as  well  us  she  did  when  M. 
lo  ('oiiite  voire  pert  came  down  from 
Paris,  with  his  friends,  to  shoot  moiw 
birds.  That  was  a  long  while  ago,  and 
Paris  is  a  long  way  oil ;  but  still  there 
is  M.  lo  Comte  como  to  cheer  up  the 
old  cltAtoau  with  his  pleasant  face.  Ah, 
monsieur  I  in  youth  wo  are  always  gay, 
but  perhaps  wo  are  happy  only  in  old 
ago."  And  so  she  chattered  on  very 
disconnectedly,  but  with  somo  nice 
touches  of  truth,  as  she  followed  Claude 
to  tho  liroakfast-tablo. 

A  few  moments  after  tho  breakfast 
had  commoncod,  Tristan  entered  hurried- 
ly, eager  with  important  communicv 
tions.  Ho  hud  found  the  carpenter,  who 
would  como  at  once  to  make  the  benches 
and  arrange  the  tables,  so  that  all  should 
bo  ready  for  tho  evening.  Then  he  had 
mot  a  littlo  boy  with  a  basket  of  fine, 
fresh  strawberries,  and  ho  had  bought 
thorn  for  dessert ;  and  ho  had  found  a 
number  of  lamps  in  tho  town  that  would 
do  nicely  to  light  up  tho  hall ;  and  ho 
had  heard  that  the  strangers  at  La  Croix 
Verto  wore  two  English  lords,  whose 
ladies  were  at  St.  Gildos  for  bathing, 
while  they  wore  to  remain  at  tho  inn 
because  the  nuns  would  not  receive 
them  into  tho  convant,  although  they 
had  offered  more  gold  than  had  been 
seen  in  the  old  abbey  for  years. 

All  this  Claude  listened  to  patiently ; 
and  he  even  t  cd  to  interest  himself  in 
tho  potty  details  of  tho  dinner  and  tho 
arrangements  of  the  table,  which  Na- 
nette declared  would  look  bourgeoise 
with  common  delf  and  no  silver.  "  Such 
a  thing,"  she  said,  "would  never  have 
been  thought  of,  monsieur,  in  the  time 
of  M.  lo  Comte  voire  pire,  for  a  noble  to 
invito  people  to  dine  with  him  at  his 
chitettu  with  ao  proper  minage  for 
serving  them."  For  some  reason,  the 
incongruities  of  his  life  seemed  more 
apparent  on  this  day  than  ever  before. 
He  regretted  that  ho  had  gone  to  La 
Croix  Verte  tho  previous  evening,  for 


•'njwuLVimi]tf'M'i«'-j*jui*;.'^'''nH"*!«  ^i^^ 


74 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


he  did  not  feci  equal  to  the  task  ho  had 
taken  upon  him.  What  had  become  of 
all  his  earnest  resolutions,  his  enthusi- 
astic professions  of  interest  1  He  had 
felt  an  imjjulse  to  a  generous  act, 
and  before  ho  had  fairly  begun  the 
work  he  was  already  weary  of  it. 
Starting  up  from  the  sofa  on  which  he 
had  thrown  himself  dejectedly,  ho  said, 
in  a  stern,  loud  voice,  "  I  am  an  un- 
grateful beast;  a  feeble,  puling,  miser- 
able wretch  ;  a  dolt,  a  coward.  I  have 
neither  strength  nor  courage.  Good 
God  !  I  did  not  believe  that  a  glimpse 
of  a  white  hand,  the  sight  of  refined 
faces,  and  the  sound  of  a  cultivated 
voice,  could  make  such  havoc  with  my 
resolutions.  I  have  lived  so  long  witli 
vulgar  but  honest  souls  that  I  thought 
such  puerilities  had  no  power  to  touch 
mo.  I  thought  I  had  stilled  the  cries 
of  my  heart  for  another  and  more 
gentle  life.  I  thought  Nature  and  her 
untaught  children  could  make  me  forget 
the  station  I  was  bom  to,  the  home 
from  which  I  was  thrust  by  deception 
and  injustice ;  but  it  has  all  returned 
to  me  with  double  power.  I  am  con- 
sumed with  the  old  longii<g  to  sit  once 
^snore  in  my  elegant  rooms,  to  look 
Again  upon  pictures  and  statues,  to 
sleep  under  silken  curtains,  to  step 
upon  tapestry,  to  be  clothed  in  purple 
and  fine  linen,  to  look  over  acres  of 
cultivated  and  decorated  grounds,  to 
wander  among  exotics  that  woo  false 
breezes  and  raise  their  lips  for  the 
caresses  of  a  strange  sun,  to  fare 
sumptuously  every  day  at  a  table  load- 
ed with  delicacies  and  glowing  with 
color  and  light,  to  listen  to  music  from 
stringed  instruments,  swept  by  white 
bands  ;  in  short,  —  in  short  to  taste  of 
enervating  luxury  and  gilded  idleness. 
And  these  desires  are  the  result  of  five 
years  of  privation  and  sacrifice,  five 
years  of  hardening  and  chilling  1  Alas  ! 
then  I  have  suffered  for  nothing,  if  I 
am  to  be  heated  and  melted  by  the  first 
breath  of  elegance  wafted  hither  by 
these  effeminate  pleasure-seekers.  0 
my  barren  and  rugged  shores  !  0  Na- 
ture, my  stem,  but  tmthful  monitor, 
do  not  desert  and  deceive  me ;  give  me 
back  the  calm  and  strength  I  have 
drawn  from  thee !  "  He  heard  the  gen- 
tle, pleasant  voice  of  Tristan  below, 


talking  with  the  carpenter,  who  had 
come.  "  They,  simple  souls,  are  inter- 
ested and  happy  in  their  humble  occu- 
pation. I  will  not  remain  here  lashing 
myself  with  idle  reproaches,  while  1 
have  the  power  to  act.  I  too  will  work, 
and  kill  with  labor  these  delicate  re- 
pinings."  So  he  went  down,  ancl  Jerome 
looked  on  with  astonishment  while  M. 
le  Comte  lifted,  sawed,  and  planed,  as 
though  he  had  been  born  a  mechanic, 
with  the  necessity  of  earning  his  daily 
bread. 

All  the  afternoon  Claude  worked  with 
a  will ;  and  when  it  was  time  to  receive 
his  guests,  everything  was  completed  in 
the  great  hall,  and  the  lamps  placed 
ready  to  light. 

The  dinner  passed  off"  admirably. 
The  Cur^  ate  and  drank  himself  into  a 
stupidity  greater,  if  possible,  than  his 
normal  condition  ;  while  t!\e  good  wine 
served  to  loosen  the  doctor'n  tongue,  so 
that  he  became  ridiculously  loquacious, 
rattling  on  in  a  way  that  amused,  if  it 
did  not  instruct. 

Before  the  June  sun  was  fairly  set, 
and  while  Claude  and  his  guests  still 
lingered  over  the  wine,  Tristan  entered 
to  say  that  more  than  twenty  men  were 
come,  who  were  waiting  in  the  hall. 

When  M.  le  Comte  entered,  followed 
by  the  Cur6  and  the  doctor,  all  arose, 
and,  bowing  respectfully,  took  off"  their 
hats,  which  they  did  not  replace,  —  a 
mark  of  reverence  rare  among  these 
men,  who  seldom  uncovered  save  in  the 
house  of  God.  They  were  clean,  though 
rough,  uncombed,  and  unshaven ;  still 
they  looked  intelligent,  and  determined 
to  accomplish  what  they  had  under- 
taken. 

Among  the  number  were  a  few  who 
understood  the  most  simple  rudiments ; 
these  Claude  took  under  his  more  es- 
pecial instruction,  leaving  the  others  to 
Tristan,  who  gathered  them  around  the 
blackboard,  on  which  Claude  had  written 
the  alphabet  in  large  characters. 

There  was  something  in  the  scene 
that  suggested  with  power  the  contra- 
diction founded  in  life.  A  visible  blend- 
ing of  the  shadowy  past  with  the  com- 
mon and  practical  present.  Aged  and 
decaying  grandeur  stooping  to  touch 
the  strong  hand  of  young  poverty. 
Genius   and  profound  knowledge   side 


.mih%u»fA>rm^sr 


ponter,  who  had 
Bonis,  arc  Inter- 
eir  humble  occu- 
tnaiu  here  lashing 
)roiiclics,  while  1 
1  too  will  work, 
hese  delicate  re- 
down,  nn(l  Jerome 
shment  while  M. 
d,  and  planed,  as 
born  a  muchanic, 
earning  liis  daily 

aude  worked  with 

as  time  to  receive 

was  completed  in 

the  lamps  placed 

i  off  admirably, 
nk  himself  into  a 
possible,  than  his 
lile  the  good  wine 
ioctor'ti  tongue,  so 
ilously  loquacious, 
that  amused,  if  it 

un  was  faiily  set, 
d  his  guests  still 
Tristan  entered 
I  twenty  men  were 
ng  in  the  hall. 
I  entered,  followed 
!  doctor,  all  arose, 
illy,  took  off  their 
I  not  replace,  —  a 
rare  among  these 
jovered  save  in  the 
were  clean,  though 
id  unshaven ;  still 
it,  and  determined 
they  had   under- 

sr  were  a  few  who 
simple  rudiments ; 
nder  his  more  es- 
ving  the  others  to 
1  them  around  the 
Claude  had  written 
characters, 
ling  in  the  scene 
power  the  contra- 
3.  A  visible  blend- 
tast  with  the  com- 
resent.  Aged  and 
itooping  to  touch 
r  young  poverty, 
d  knowledge  side 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


76 


by  side,  with  the  ignorance  and  sim- 
plicity of  childhood. 

The  great  arched  hall,  with  its  faded 
tapestry,  and  richly  carved  cornice,  and 
the  narrow  deep  mullioned  windows, 
showing  strips  of  blue-black  sky  studded 
with  stars,  made  a  rino  backgi'ound 
for  the  figures  gathered  around  the 
wide-mouthed  fireplace,  filled  with  a 
smouldering  pile  of  driftwood  and  dried 
furze ;  for  oven  in  summer  the  evenings 
arc  exceedingly  chilly  on  the  peninsula 
of  Jlhuys.  The  rude  tables  and  benches 
were  drawn  around  the  chimney,  on  one 
side  of  which  sat  Claude,  surrounded  by 
a  group  of  interested  listeners,  to  whom 
he  was  relating  some  events  in  the  past 
history  of  his  coimtry.  There  was  not 
one  among  them  who  had  not  heard  of 
the  heroic  struggles  of  La  Vendee,  and 
the  defeat  of  the  brave  General  Som- 
breuil  on  the  sands  of  Quiberon.  They 
also  knew  that  the  department  of  Mor- 
bihan  had  produced  heroes,  for  the  name 
of  Cadoudal,  the  leader  of  the  Chouans, 
had  been  familiar  to  them  from  their 
cradles.  And  they  had  imbibed  with 
their  milk  the  hate  of  their  ancestors 
for  the  Republican  generals,  Hoche  and 
Humbert,  having  al'  it  sometime  made 
a  pilgrimage  to  the  Champ  des  Martyrs, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Auray,  where  were 
shot  the  unfortunate  Emigres  and  Roy- 
alists who  composed  the  ill-fated  expe- 
dition of  Quiberon.  Still  they  had 
received  all  these  stories  of  the  strug- 
gles of  the  past  as  the  ignorant  receive 
tradition,  without  inquiring  into  the 
succession  of  events  that  led  to  such 
tragic  results.  Now  they  listened  open- 
mouthed  and  absorbed  to  Claude's  brief 
but  lucid  history  of  the  condition  of 
t^  country  at  that  time,  of  the  terrible 
conflict  between  the  people  and  the 
court,  of  the  degeneration,  luxury,  and 
vice  of  the  monarchy,  of  the  stern,  'elf- 
denying,  and  heroic,  but  cruel  and  se- 
vere rule  of  the  Republic,  from  each  of 
which  he  gathered  some  simple  but  forci- 
ble moral  to  apply  to  the  present. 

Tristan,  with  his  deformed  body  raised 
to  its  utmost  height,  his  h«ad  erect,  and 
his  haggard  face  spiritualized  and  al- 
most beautified  by  his  earnest  desire  to 
make  his  anxious  pupils  understand  the 
difference  between  c  and  ff,  wielded  his 
pointer  with  the  grace    f  a  fashionable 


director,  while  he  called  out  each  letter 
in  a  voice  that  would  have  done  credit 
to  an  orator.  The  men  were  all  eager, 
interested,  and  good-natured.  When 
one  made  a  mistake,  another  with  a 
bettor  memory,  delighted  with  his  new 
acquirement,  prompted  him  readily, 
while  the  clever  individual  who  re- 
peated the  whole  alphabet  correctly 
was  applauded  with  the  utmost  warmth, 
at  which  noise,  the  Cure,  who  slum- 
bered peacefully  in  the  corner,  awoke 
with  a  sudden  snort,  and  looked  around 
wildly,  as  he  muttered,  "  Veiiitc,  exul- 
tcmus  Domino,"  for  ho  thought  ho  had 
fallen  asleep,  as  it  was  his  habit  to  do 
during  the  performance  of  mass. 

M.  le  Docteur,  in  the  best  possible 
humor,  sat  on  the  right  hand  of  Claude, 
who  frequently  referred  to  him  for  a 
corroboration  of  certain  historical  state- 
ments, which  tickled  his  vanity,  ami 
caused  him  to  pour  out  his  knowledge 
so  freely,  that  the  simple  people,  not 
understanding  its  spurious  quality, 
looked  upon  him  as  an  oracle  of  wis- 
dom. 

Old  Janot  and  Nanette  had  come  in 
with  Claude's  permission,  and  sat  hand 
in  hand  near  the  door,  the  old  man 
grumbling  now  and  then  in  a  scarce 
audible  voice,  while  the  woman's  sharp 
eyes  followed  every  movement  and  word 
with  the  utmost  interest. 

When  the  lessons  were  finished,  much 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all,  Tristan  pro- 
duced from  a  large  basket,  bread,  cheese, 
and  wine,  which,  with  the  assistance 
of  Nanette,  ho  placed  upon  the  tables. 
The  men  seemed  even  more  grateful  for 
the  simple  supper  than  they  had  been 
for  their  intellectual  feast,  and  all  did 
ampK  justice  to  it,  laughing  like  good- 
natured  children  at  a  not  very  brilliant 
hon-mot  of  the  doctor,  made  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  Cui*^,  who  was  now  wide 
awake. 

"  My  good  Tristan,"  said  Claude  in 
a  low  tone,  while  he  clasped  the  hunch- 
back's hand  in  his,  "  you  think  of  every- 
thing to  make  others  happy.  This 
morning  I  came  very  near  throwing  up 
the  whole  matter.  In  fact,  I  was  on 
the  brink  of  a  disgraceful  defeat,  the 
result  of  my  own  weakness  and  selfish- 
ness, but  strength  mercifully  came  at 
the  right  moment,  and  you,  with  year 


<ianw>niWttB«mi 


76 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


gentle  care  and  kindness,  have  changed 
my  discomfiture  to  a  beautiful  triumph, 
for  I  have  seldom  felt  stronger  and 
happier  than  at  this  moment.  It  is  a 
reward  for  many  trials  to  see  these 
simple  souls  so  contented  with  their 
new  inidcrtaking.  We  must  provide 
this  little  Slipper  for  them  every  night. 
Some  of  them  have  a  long  walk,  and 
they  must  not  go  to  their  beds  hun- 
gry-" 

Tristan  smiled  his  approval,  and  went 

on  dispensing  his  loaves,  a  worthy  dis- 
ciple of  his  blessed  Master. 

When  the  last  man  had  been  lighted 
out,  and  the  Curd  and  the  doctor  had 
been  dismissed  in  the  most  friendly 
manner,  the  gate  closed  and  barred,  and 
Tristan  sent  to  bed  with  many  affec- 
tionate good-nights,  Claude  lighted  a 
cigar,  and  went  out  on  to  the  balcony  in 
the  most  exultant  state  of  mind.  The 
weak  desires  of  the  morning  were  gone, 
and  his  soul  was  full  of  noble  and  gen- 
erous intentions.  The  rugged  shore, 
the  furze-clad  rocks,  and  the  poverty- 
stricken  town,  with  its  few  ignorant, 
degraded  inhabitants,  seemed  to  him 
a  kingdom;  and  his  ruined  desolate 
chateau  seemed  a  royal  palace,  filled 
with  the  pride  of  wealth  and  glory. 
"  Here  are  strong,  good  hearts,  with 
great  possibilities ;  they  are  worth  thou- 
sands of  fawning  courtiers.  I  have  won 
them,  they  are  mine,  and  I  will  live 
for  them,  and  raise  them  to  a  higher 
level.  This  old  place  shall  be  rebuilt 
and  refurnished,  and  here  I  will  found 
a  school  and  a  library,  a  free  fountain 
where  all  may  come  to  drink  knowledge. 
Poor  Sarzeau !  you  shall  not  hlways  be 
despised ;  the  birthplace  of  Lesage  shall 
not  sink  into  insignificance."  Then  his 
thoughts  recurred  to  the  struggle  of 
the  morning,  and  he  said,  with  a  feel- 
ing of  satisfaction  that  it  was  over, 
"Almost  a  defeat,  almost  a  defeat", 


PART  FIFTH. 

CRUEL  AS   DEATH. 

Fob  some  days  Claude  had  been  in- 
tending to  make  an  excursion  to  Lock- 
mariaker  and  Gavr  Innes,  in  order  to 


take  some  sketches  and  notes  of  these 
wonderful  tumuli,  Mand  Lud  and  Man6 
Ar  Groach.  On  the  morning  after  his 
first  effort  of  regeneration  he  arose  with 
a  clear  head  and  buoyant  heart,  took  a 
hearty  breakfast  and  his  sketch-book, 
and  started  on  his  excursion.  When 
he  passed  out  through  the  great  hall  he 
found  Tristan  already  engaged  with  his 
ragged  herd,  who  surroiinded  him  with 
the  most  affectionate  familiarity,  while 
he  explained  to  them  the  puzzling  com- 
bination of  letters  to  form  words  that 
expressed  the  most  common  things.  As 
Claude  came  down  the  steps,  singing 
Aprea  la  hataille,  with  a  light  voice  and 
smiling  face,  Tristan  left  his  seat,  say- 
ing, "  Ah,  monsieur,  you  are  happy 
this  morning,  your  face  is  full  of  sun- 
shine. I  will  pray  that  it  may  last  for- 
ever." 

"And  I,  too,  will  pray,  Tristan. 
Adieu  until  night,"  he  replied,  as  he 
threw  a  handful  of  small  coin  among 
the  children,  laughing,  as  he  went  out, 
to  see  them  scramble  for  it. 

"  What  new  trouble  is  coming  1 "  said 
Tristan,  looking  after  him  as  he  crossed 
the  court.  "  I  would  rather  not  see  him 
too  happy,  he  is  always  sorrowful  after- 
ward. I  hope  he  will  return  as  gay  as 
he  goes  out."  The  poor  fellow's  wish 
was  in  vain,  for  his  master  did  not  re- 
turn as  gay  as  he  went  out. 

When  Claude  reached  the  gate,  Janot 
opened  it  slowly,  saying,  "Ah,  M.  le 
Comte,  you  are  as  bright  as  a  young  gal- 
lant this  morning,  but  remember,  mon- 
sieur, that  a  clear  sunrise  often  makes 
a  cloudy  evening." 

"  I  know  it,  you  old  raven,  without 
being  reminded  of  it,"  returned  Claude, 
good-naturedly.  "  You  act  upon  •y 
spirits  like  fog  from  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 
When  the  sun  shines,  don't  cloud  it  with 
your  gloomy  prophecies.  Wait  until 
night  comes."  And  with  these  sugges- 
tive words  he  closed  the  gate  and  walked 
away  with  a  light  step.  Four  miles  of 
rough  road  bro\ight  him  to  the  Butte  de 
Tumiac,  where  he  entered  the  small 
chamber  and  examined  with  curiosity 
the  strange  Celtic  monuments.  It  was 
a  dim,  weird  place,  and  brought  to  his 
mind  the  many  supernatural  tales  of 
his  childhood,  told  by  his  nurse,  who 
was   a  native    of    Auray.      Somewhat 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR, 


77 


ind  notes  of  these 
&ai  Lud  and  Mun^ 
morning  after  his 
ation  he  arose  with 
yant  heart,  took  a 
his  sketch-book, 
excursion.      When 
h  the  great  hall  he 
5^  engaged  with  his 
rrounded  him  with 
familiarity,  while 
the  puzzling  corn- 
form  words  that 
immon  things.   As 
the  steps,  singing 
h  a  light  voice  and 
left  his  seat,  say- 
you  are   happy 
face  is  full  of  sun- 
lat  it  may  last  for- 

11    pray,    Tristan. 

he   replied,  as  ho 

small  coin  among 
g,  as  he  went  out, 

for  it. 
e  is  coming  1 "  said 

him  as  he  crossed 
rather  not  see  him 
ys  sorrowful  after- 
1  return  as  gay  as 
poor  fellow's  wish 
master  did  not  re- 
nt out. 

led  the  gate,  Janot 
ying,  "Ah,  M.  le 
ght  as  a  young  gal- 
it  remember,  mon- 
nrise  often  makes 

lid  raven,  without 
''  returned  Claude, 
ou  act  upon  tly 
he  Bay  of  Biscay, 
don't  cloud  it  with 
cies.  Wait  until 
with  these  sugges- 
le  gate  and  walked 
3.  Four  miles  of 
m  to  the  Butte  de 
ntered  the  small 
ed  with  curiosity 
numents.  It  was 
id  brought  to  his 
matural  tales  of 
•y  his  nurse,  who 
iray.      Somewhat 


chilled  and  depressed  he  passed  out 
through  the  narrow,  dark  passage  into 
the  sunlight,  and  found  old  Joseph,  the 
boatman,  waiting  to  row  him  over  to 
Lockmariaker.  It  was  a  glorious  morn- 
ing, and  us  the  boat  cut  the  shining  wa- 
ter, throwing  from  her  bow  little  clouds 
of  foam  that  broke  into  a  dozen  tiny 
rainbows  ere  they  fell,  Claude's  spirit 
shook  oif  the  dreary  influence  of  the 
gloomy  chamber  haunted  with  the  shad- 
ows of  vanished  barbarians,  and  ho  en- 
joyed thoroughly  the  beauty  of  the 
scene.  He  had  always  looked  upon 
tlie  broken  shore  as  dreary  and  gray, 
but  now  it  seemed  softened  by  the  sun- 
light and  the  translucent  air  into  a 
thousand  tender  tints.  The  rough, 
hcatli-topped  cliffs  gleamed  like  ame- 
thyst framed  in  agato  of  every  hue. 
The  sands  of  the  shore  ran  golden  to 
the  blue  of  the  sea ;  the  jutting  rocks 
threw  soft  shadows  over  the  tiny  islands 
that  lay  like  scattered  jewels  at  the  feet 
of  a  king ;  the  sea-birds,  startled  from 
their  nests  in  the  rocks,  wheeled  and 
floated,  dipping  the  tips  of  their  white 
wings  in  the  foam  dashed  from  the 
oars  of  the  rower,  while  they  replied  to 
their  mates  in  clear,  shrill  tones  that 
did  homage  to  the  beauty  of  nature 
as  eloquently  as  does  the  VDice  of 
man. 

"I  rowed  a  party  over  yesterday," 
said  Joseph,  when  he  had  made  about 
half  the  distance  between  the  Butte  de 
Tumiac  and  Lockmariaker,  "  and  here 
I  was  obliged  to  rest  on  my  oars  for  the 
view,  which  they  all  pronoimced  best 
from  this  point,  and  I  believe  it  is  so ; 
for  before  us  is  the  Morbihan,  Gavr 
Innes,  the  estuary  of  the  Auray,  and 
Locknif  riaker.  Look  behind,  if  you 
please,  nonsieur,  and  you  can  see  the 
bay  a.id  peninsulas  of  Quiberon  and 
Rhuys,  with  the  old  al)bey  of  St.  Gildas 
at  the  summit  of  the  cliff.  I  think  this 
is  the  only  spot  where  all  these  points 
can  be  seen  at  once." 

"  It  is  fine,"  said  Claude,  standing  up 
and  looking  off  in  the  direction  of  St. 
Gildas.  "As  many  times  as  I  have 
crossed,  I  never  before  noticed  the  per- 
fection of  this  view." 

"  One  of  the  ladies  spoke  of  i£  first. 
There  are  two,  and  both  are  young  and 
pretty.     They  are  at  the  abbey,  and  the 


gentlemen  are  in  the  town  at  La  Croix 
Verte.  Have  you  seen  them,  M,  le 
Comtel" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Claude,  "  I  saw  them 
the  night  they  arrived.  One  is  old  and 
the  other  i&  young;  are  they  father 
and  son  1 " 

"I  don't  know,  monsieur,"  returned 
the  old  boatman,  with  a  puzzled  expres- 
sion, "  I  could  not  make  out  the  rela- 
tionship ;  although  I  am  sure  one  of  the 
ladies  is  the  wife  of  one  of  the  gentle- 
men, yet  I  could  not  tell  which  she  be- 
longed to.  0  monsieur !  she  is  beauti- 
ful, with  such  hair  and  eyes,  and  a  face 
like  an  angel.  This  boat  never  carried 
anything  so  precious  before." 

Claude  laughed  at  the  old  man's  en- 
thusiastic admiration  of  the  fair  stranger, 
and  said,  "  Such  a  lovely  passenger  may 
bring  you  good  fortune,  Joseph,  at  least 
I  hope  it  may." 

"  And  I  hope  so  too,  monsieur,  but 
it  is  the  good  fortune  to  row  her  across 
again  that  ia  the  most  I  ask  for."  And 
with  this  pleasant  wish  Joseph  bent  to 
his  oars  and  shot  ahead  rapidly,  soon 
runing  his  little  bark  up  to  the  rough 
pier  south  of  Lockmariaker. 

Walking  over  the  smooth  beach,  still 
moist  where  the  tide  had  left  it  bare, 
Claude  found  himself  looking  at  the 
many  tracks  on  the  sand,  and  wondering 
whose  feet  had  made  them,  and  where 
were  then  the  beings  who  had  left  their 
footsteps  behind  them,  only  to  be  effaced 
by  the  returning  tide.  And  then  his 
thoughts  reverted  to  the  stranger  with 
lovely  hair  and  a  face  that  old  Joseph 
likened  to  an  angel's.  "  She  passed 
over  this  same  spot  yesterday,"  he  said, 
"  but  here  is  no  impress  of  a  Paris  boot ; 
how  absurd  !  how  should  there  be,  when 
the  tide  has  ebbed  and  flowed  twice 
since  then  1  Of  course  if  she  is  young 
and  lovely  she  is  fashionable  and  frivo- 
lous. It  must  have  been  her  hand  which 
I  saw  at  the  window  of  St.  Gildas.  I 
wish  I  could  have  seen  her  face ;  ah  well, 
it  might  have  been  less  fair  than  her 
hand."  Then  like  the  sudden  change 
of  a  kaleidoscope  there  came  before  his 
mental  vision  a  slight,  girlish  figure  in 
a  nun's  gown  and  serge  veil,  her  yellow 
hair  hidden  under  folds  of  white  linen, 
her  slim  hands  crossed  over  a  crucifix. 
The  contrast  between  tha,t  sad,  (j[uiet 


-  'lajoaatwtiMMiiiimiivniiM 


»WWJICUIfeaLi^...';. 


re 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


form  and  tho  active,  joyous  girl  who 
the  day  before  had  walked  over  the 
shining  beach  with  the  fresh  wind  blow- 
ing her  dress  and  hair,  made  his  heart 
acho,  until  it  seemed  again  as  though 
cruel  fingers  had  pressed  upon  it.  "  0 
Cd'leste  !  Celeste  !  "  he  thought,  "  if  we 
two  were  but  sitting  on  this  breezy 
shore  watching  together  the  tide  flow 
out,  leaving  the  shining  sands  at  our 
feet,  or  if  we  two  were  but  sleeping 
together  in  the  quiet  breast  of  yonder 
sunlit  isle,  our  bodies  forever  at  rest, 
and  our  souls  in  peace  with  God  !  But 
thou  art  woree  than  dead  to  me,  thou 
art  entombed  forever  from  my  sight, 
and  I  am  hero  alone  to  regret  thee." 
Dashing  away  the  tears  that  trembled 
on  his  lashes,  he  turned  from  the  shore 
and  took  the  direction  toward  tho  Mon- 
tague de  la  F^e.  After  exploring  the 
stone  chambers,  and  copying  some  of 
the  hieroglyphics,  which  no  one  has 
ever  yet  deciphered,  he  examined  with 
the  minutest  care  the  mysterious  mon- 
uments, which  have  so  puzzled  the 
learned  in  trying  to  determine  whether 
they  were  erected  by  Roman  or  Celt, 
or  whether  they  were  memorials  of  re- 
ligious rites  or  military  power.  When 
he  had  wearied  himself  to  no  purpose 
over  these  inexplicable  traces  of  a  van- 
ished race  and  a  lost  language,  he  entered 
the  Man6  Lud,  whose  stone  chamber  is 
covered  with  characters  still  more  per- 
plexing than  any  other.  There  he  sat 
down  on  a  flat  stone  and  mentally  re- 
viewed all  he  had  read  and  heard  on  the 
subject,  striving  to  glean  some  hint 
from  tiie  history  and  traditions  of  the 
past,  to  find  in  the  curious  inscriptions 
some  resemblance  to  Cufic  or  Egyptian 
hieroglyphics;  but  it  was  in  vain,  he 
could  not  trace  the  slightest  analogy 
cither  in  form  or  arrangement.  Weary, 
confused,  and  discouraged,  he  walked 
back  to  the  shore,  and  was  rowed  over 
to  GS,vr  Innes.  It  was  now  long  after 
midday,  and  the  heavens  had  clouded 
over  while  he  had  been  dreaming  away 
the  sunshine  in  the  gloomy  chamber  of 
Man^  Lud. 

When  the  boat  grated  on  the  beach 
of  Gavr  Innes,  Joseph  sjiid,  "You  will 
please  not  be  long  at  the  tumulus, 
monsieur,  for  the  wind  is  rising  and 
setting  out  from  the  shore,   and  if  it 


should  continue  to  increase  I  shall  have 
a  hard  fight  to  reach  La  Butte." 

Claude  did  not  intend  to  remain  long 
when  he  entered  the  stone  gallery,  but 
the  time  passed  more  rapidly  than  ho 
thought,  in  tho  new  interest  he  found 
here,  so  totally  different  from  that  of 
Man6  Lud.  The  twenty-seven  pillars, 
covered  with  singular  sculptured  devices 
of  serpents  and  battle-axe-i,  represented 
the  warlike  weapons  or  religious  emblems 
of  a  more  savage  race  than  cither  early 
Roman  or  Celt.  When  he  left  the  spot, 
which  he  did  reluctantly,  tho  wind  had 
increased  to  almost  a  gale,  tho  sun  was 
hidden  by  a  veil  of  dense  clouds,  and 
the  waves  drove  furiously  against  the 
shore. 

Joseph  groaned  more  than  once  over 
his  one  oar,  for  Claude  had  taken  the 
other  to  assist  in  the  hard  fight  to 
reach  La  Butte,  and  their  united 
strength  was  fairly  exhausted  when 
they  glided  safely  into  tho  little  ha- 
ven among  the  rocks. 

Instead  of  taking  the  direct  road  to 
Sarzeau,  Claude  determined  to  walk 
along  the  beach  to  a  boat-house  behind 
a  high  promontory  that  offered  a  shel- 
ter where  he  could  sit  and  watch  the 
great  waves  dash  upon  the  rough  shore. 
He  liked  the  sea  best  when  it  was 
lashed  into  fury  by  the  angry  wind. 
He  felt  a  weird  sort  of  pleasure  in  the 
shriek  of  the  tempest,  in  the  roar  of 
the  tliunder,  and  the  vivid  flash  of  the 
lightning  as  it  cut  the  heavens  into 
yawning  chasms  and  made  flaming 
tracks  upon  the  crested  waves.  Tho 
spasms  of  nature  found  a  responsive 
throe  within  his  own  soul,  which  had 
writhed  and  struggled  as  fiercely  as  did 
the  waves  of  the  sea  to  overleap  their 
bounds.  But  the  same  Voice  that 
hushes  nature  into  calm  had  also 
stilled  his  rebellious  heart  and  taught 
it  submission. 

The  storm  was  increasing,  the  wind 
came  in  short,  f\ngry  gusts,  dying  away 
into  momentary  calm,  and  then  with 
renewed  strength  driving  over  the  lead- 
en sen,  and  dashing  the  foam-dressed 
waves  high  upon  the  in  v  uJnerable  rocks. 
It  was  terril)le  rounding  the  promontory, 
and  more  than  once  Claude  was  obliged 
to  turn  his  back  to  tho  sea,  for  tlie 
spray  blinded  him  and  the  roar  of  tho 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


79 


icreaso  I  shall  have 

La  Butto." 
icnd  to  remain  long 
0  stone  gallery,  but 
re  rapidly  than  ho 

interest  he  found 
jrent  from  that  of 
venty-sevon  pillars, 

sculptured  devices 
le-axc'i,  represented 
ir  religious  emblems 
!0  than  cither  early 
on  he  left  the  spot, 
ntly,  the  wind  had 

gale,  the  sun  was 

dense  clouds,  and 

•iously  against  the 

ore  than  once  over 
iide  had  taken  the 
the   hard  figlit  to 
md     their    united 
■  exhausted    when 
nto  the  little  ba- 
the direct  road  to 
termiued    to    walk 
boat-house  behind 
lat  offered  a  shel- 
sit  and  watch  the 
an  the  rough  shore, 
best   when   it   was 
'  the  angry   wind, 
of  pleasure  in  the 
!8t,  in  the  roar  of 
3  vivid  flash  of  the 
the   heavens   into 
nd    made    flaming 
istcd  waves.      The 
ound  a  responsive 
n  soul,  which  had 
d  as  fiercely  as  did 
I  to  overleap  their 
same    Voice    that 
calm     had    also 
heart  and  taught 

creasing,  the  wind 
gusts,  dying  away 
fi,  and  then  with 
ang  over  the  Icad- 

the  foam-dressed 
nvuJnerable  rocks, 
ig  the  promontory, 
Claude  was  obliged 

the  sea,  for  the 
d  the  roar  of  tho 


tempest  deafened  him.  But  the  resist- 
ance t;f  v.nul  and  wave  could  not  turn 
liim  from  iii.s  purpose,  for  fate  held  him 
by  the  liand  and  led  him  resolutely 
toward  his  destiny.  So  he  toiled  on 
until  the  point  was  turned  and  ho  camo 
into  a  little  haven  of  calm. 

It  was  a  long  strotcli  of  beach,  where 
were  usually  two  or  three  boats  drawn 
up  beyond  the  lino  of  the  tide,  but 
now  there  was  not  one,  and  a  rude 
boat-house  sheltered  under  a  great  cliflT, 
with  high  walls  of  rock  on  each  side. 

Claude's  first  feeling  was  one  of  re- 
lief, his  second  one  of  surprise,  for  at 
the  fartlier  side  of  the  inlet,  near  the 
sea,  stood  two  women.  Their  faces 
were  turned  from  him.  One  was  tall 
and  strong,  wrapped  in  a  dark  mantle, 
with  a  veil  of  brown  serge  blowing  back 
from  her  hat.  The  other  was  slighter, 
and  her  dress  was  of  pale  blue,  over 
which  was  gathered  a  shawl  of  scarlet 
and  white.  The  only  veil  she  wore  was 
her  yellow  hair,  that  streamed  far  be- 
hind her,  torn  from  its  fastenings  by 
the  wind.  Her  head  was  bowed  in  her 
hands,  and  she  seemed  to  be  weeping 
bitterly ;  while  her  companion,  with  her 
arm  around  her,  was  looking  stead- 
fastly out  on  the  sea.  Claude  followed 
her  gaze,  and  there,  struggling  with  the 
terrible  waves,  some  distance  from  the 
shore,  he  saw  a  tiny  Iwat  in  which  were 
two  men,  who  were  either  exhausted  or 
unacquainted  with  their  oars ;  for  the 
little  thing  danced  and  whirled  like  a 
cork,  sometimes  lost  to  sight,  and  then 
reappearing  on  the  top  of  a  crested 
wave,  only  to  vanish  the  next  moment 
into  a  terrible  chasm  that  threatened 
to  ingulf  it. 

Claude  saw  it  but  for  an  instant,  but 
in  that  instant  he  knew  that  unless  aid 
reached  them  they  must  perish ;  and 
he  also  understood  the  danger  >  in  at- 
tempting to  save  them.  Nevertheless 
ho  said  firmly,  "I  will  try,  and  God 
will  help  me."  Then  ho  turned  toward 
the  women,  who  had  not  seen  him,  for 
the  first  impulse  of  his  tender  heart 
was  to  comfort  and  reassure  them  be- 
fore ho  started  on  his  perilous  under- 
taking. They  heard  his  footsteps,  and 
both  turned  toward  him,  startled  and 
surprised.  He  saw  but  one ;  for  in  that 
moment  all  else  of  heaven  and  earth 


was  blotted  out,  and  she  seemed  to 
stand  alone,  enveloped  in  dull,  gray 
clouds.  "  Celeste,  C61cste  ! "  ho  cried, 
in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  ring  out  like 
a  bell  above  the  roaring  of  the  sea,  as 
he  sprang  toward  her  with  outstretched 
arms.  Then  the  cloud  seemed  to  en- 
close her  like  a  wall,  as  she  drew  back 
from  him  with  something  of  the  expres- 
sion of  fear  and  anguish  that  had 
stamped  her  face  that  day,  five  years 
before,  when  they  parted  in  the  rose- 
garden  at  Monthelon. 

There  are  moments  that  leave  their 
impress  upon  our  whole  lives,  —  mo- 
ments that  seem  to  wrench  reason  from 
us  at  one  gi'asp;  that  stifle,  bewilder, 
and  blind  us.  We  call  the  sensation 
faintness,  but  it  is  a  taste  of  deatli,  a 
drop  of  poison  that  works  in  our  veins 
long  after,  and  finally  chills  the  crimson 
flood.  We  know  by  the  coldness,  pal- 
lor, and  stony  expression  of  many 
around  us,  that  they  have  been  touched 
with  death,  although  they  may  not  die 
until  long  after. 

Claude  dashed  his  hand  over  his  face, 
and  murmured,  "  My  (Jod  !  Am  I  dy- 
ing? I  cannot  see."  Then  with  a 
superhuman  strength  he  struggled  back 
to  himself,  and  said  with  painful  calm- 
ness, "  Celeste,  listen  to  mo  for  one 
moment,  and  do  not  look  at  mc  with 
fear ;  indeed,  you  have  no  cause  to  fear 
me." 

"  0  Claude  !  I  do  not  fear  you,"  she 
cried,  —  "I  do  not  fear  you.  I  have 
wronged  you  deeply.  Can  you  forgive 
me  for  my  cruelty  and  injustice  1  Can 
you  forgive  me,  and  save  him  ? "  point- 
ing to  the  boat.  "  My  husband  is 
there  struggling  with  death.  Can  you 
save  him  1 "  • 

"  Your  husband,  your  husband,"  he 
repeated  slowly,  but  with  a  voice  of 
rising  wrath  as  he  drew  back  from  her, 
still  keeping  his  eyes,  filled  with  pas- 
sion, fixed  upon  her  pallid  face.  "  No  ! 
no  ! "  burst  from  his  white  lips  at  last, 
with  a  force  that  made  them  tremble,  — 
"  no,  no,  I  will  not  save  him.  Leave  me 
before  I  curse  you ;  false  and  faithless 
thing,  you  have  ruined  my  life,  and 
now  you  implore  me  to  save  your  hus- 
band. No,  no ;  he  might  die  a  thou- 
sand deaths  and  I  would  not  stretcli 
out  my  hand  to  save  him  from  one." 


I  iwlii(WViii<i<ri»-i«|illi(i'4n~iinilirHiii[rn 'iiTivrrn 


to 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


"  0  Claude,  Clnude,  pity  mo  1 "  she 
entreated.  "  0  Elizabeth  1  "  she  cried, 
turning  to  the  girl,  who  still  watched 
the  boat  'vith  an  intense  gaze,  "  it  is 
Claude,  Claude  do  Clermont,  who  so 
cruelly  reproaches  me.  We  were  children 
together ;  wo  loved  each  other ;  but 
you  know  all ;  I  told  you  all  long  ago. 
Once  I  would  not  have  prayed  in  vain 
for  his  aid,  but  now  he  has  no  pity  for 
me.  Elizabeth,  speak  to  him.  I  de- 
serve his  anger,  but  you  have  never 
doubted  aud  despised  him,  and  turned 
from  him  when  he  was  suifering,  as  I 
once  did.  Elizabeth,  speak  to  him,  ho 
will  listen  to  you." 

The  girl  turned  toward  Claude,  who 
stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  sands  at 
his  feet,  like  one  stupefied  by  a  sudden 
blow.  Something  in  the  tones  of  pitiful 
entreaty  touched  him,  for  he  looked  up 
as  she  said,  "  0  monsieur,  my  father  is 
in  the  boat,  he  is  all  I  have  on  earth. 
Will  you  try  to  save  him  1 " 

"  Your  father  and  her  husband.  If 
I  save  one,  I  must  save  both." 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  "  if  you  save 
one,  you  must  save  both." 

"  It  is  as  cruel  as  death,"  ho  cried, 
wringing  his  hands,  and  raising  his 
eyes  to  the  angry  heavens,  —  "  it  is  as 
cruel  as  death;  but  what  matters  for 
one  pang  more  1  0  my  God,  I  look  to 
thee ;  do  not  abandon  me  in  this  mo- 
ment of  agony.  Give  me  strength  to 
save  her  husband  or  to  die  with  him ; 
for  if  I  survive  him,  the  memory  of  his 
death  will  rest  forever  upon  my  soul." 
A  vivid  flash  of  lightning  illuminated 
his  pallid  face,  and  wrapped  him  for  an 
instant  in  flame.  It  seemed  as  though 
God  had  touched  him,  so  suddenly  did 
the  passion  die  out  of  his  heart,  leav- 
ing a  profound  calm  that  was  almost 
joy.  In  that  supreme  moment  he  did 
not  hear  the  roar  of  the  thunder,  the 
shriek  of  the  wind,  nor  the  dash  of 
the  waves,  for  an  unbroken  silence 
seemed  to  infold  him  like  a  white  cloud, 
and  his  heart  was  melted  into  infinite 
pity.  He  looked  at  Celeste  as  she 
stood  before  him,  drenched  with  the 
spray,  her  face  white  with  anguish, 
her  eyes  swollen  with  weeping,  and  her 
long,  fair  hair  blown  pitilessly  by  the 
wind,  and  a  new  conviction  filled  his 
soul  with  remorse,  for  ho  felt  how  she 


too  must  have  suffered,  —  suffered 
through  him  and  for  him  ;  and  ho  had 
cruelly  reproached  her,  and  caused  her 
still  more  pain.  Five  years  before,  she 
had  fled  from  him  in  terror,  deaf  to 
the  entreaties  of  his  heart,  she  had  fled 
from  him  to  bury  herself,  as  ho  believed, 
forever,  in  a  living  tomb;  and  he  had 
since  then  looked  upon  her  as  dead  to 
him  and  the  world.  Now  she  stood 
before  him  on  this  lonely  shore  of  Qui- 
beron,  entreating  him  to  save  her 
husband.  And  he,  through  divine 
strength  could  say  from  the  very  depths 
of  his  being,  "  My  life  is  his  and  yours, 
use  it  as  you  will." 

With  sublime  self-renunciation  and 
deep  compassion  filling  his  hcaii:,  ho 
turned  toward  Celeste,  and  holding 
out  his  hand  he  said  gently,  "  Celeste, 
forgive  me  for  my  cruel  words ;  I  was 
mad  with  passion  or  I  could  not  have 
reproached  you.  I  love  you  at  this  mo- 
ment better  than  I  have  ever  loved  you 
before.  Remember,  I  say  better;  for 
now  I  love  you  with  no  thought  of  self. 
I  will  save  your  husband,  or  I  will  die 
with  him." 

She  seized  his  hand  and  covered  it 
with  tears  and  kisses,  sobbing,  "  O 
Claude,  Claude,  forgive  me  !  " 

"  One  only  thing,  Celeste,  before  I 
go  to  what  may  be  death.  Do  you  be- 
lieve me  innocent  of  the  crime  you  once 
thought  I  had  committed  1 " 

"  I  have  long  believed  you  innocent. 
Forgive  me,  I  loved  you  then,  I  love 
you  always  ;  but  I  was  deceived  by  an- 
other, and  blinded  by  my  childish  grief. 
I  entreat  your  forgiveness."  And,  over- 
come by  her  emotion,  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  burst  into  sobs. 

"  It  is  enough,"  ho  said  with  a  smile 
that  was  almost  happy.  *'  Now  I  can 
face  danger  with  a  strong  heart." 

Elizabeth  stood  v/ith  her  arms  around 
her  weeping  companion,  but  her  eyes 
were  fixed  o^l  the  boat  with  an  expres- 
sion of  toiiiblc  anguish.  "  It  will  be 
impossible  to  reach  them  in  this  dread- 
ful sea.  You  will  lose  your  life,  and  you 
will  not  save  theirs.  God  help  us ! 
what  shall  we  do  ? "  she  cried,  wringing 
her  hands  and  weeping  with  Celeste. 

"  I  will  make  the  attempt.  Pray  for 
me  that  I  may  not  fail,"  said  Claude, 
throwing  aside  his  coat  and  hat.     "  If  I 


•^'t-iUfMiS' 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


81 


Tered,  —  Biiffered 
liim  ;  and  ho  had 
',  and  caused  her 
years  before,  she 
1  terror,  deaf  to 
leart,  nho  had  fled 
jlf,  as  ho  believed, 
)mb;  and  ho  had 
on  her  as  dead  to 
Now  she  stood 
lely  shore  of  Qui- 
im  to  save  her 
through  divine 
m  tho  very  depths 
8  is  his  and  yours, 

-renunciation  and 
ing  his  heart,  he 
ste,  and  holding 
gently,  "Celeste, 
ucl  words;  I  was 
I  could  not  have 
(ve  you  at  this  mo- 
vve  ever  loved  you 
I  say  better;  for 
10  thought  of  self, 
aand,  or  I  will  die 


id  and  covered  it 
ises,  sobbing,  "O 
ive  me ! " 

Celeste,  before  I 
;ath.  Do  you  be- 
the  crime  you  once 
;ttedr' 

ived  you  innocent. 
;  you  then,  I  love 
as  deceived  by  an- 
1  my  childish  grief, 
encss."    And,  over- 
)n,  she  buried  her 
d  burst  into  sobs. 
I  said  with  a  smile 
ipy.     "  Now  I  can 
strong  heart." 
th  her  arms  around 
lion,  but  her  eyes 
at  with  an  expres- 
lish.     "  It  will  be 
hem  in  this  dread- 
ae  your  life,  and  you 
8.     God  help  us! 
she  cried,  wringing 
ng  with  Celeste, 
attempt.     Pray  for 

fail,"  said  Claude, 
oat  and  bat.     "  If  I 


can  roach  the  boat,  I  can  save  them," 
Ho  took  tho  hand  of  Cd'loHte,  and  pressed 
it  reverently  to  his  lips,  raised  his  eyes 
to  heaven  and  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  «iiy  ing,  "  Pray  for  mo.  Celeste,  pray 
for  mo."  Then  rushing  down  tho  beach 
he  plunged  into  tho  midst  of  a  retreat- 
ing wave,  and  was  carried  at  one  dash 
far  out  toward  the  boat,  lie  saw  with 
tho  clearness  that  is  sometimes  given  us 
in  times  of  cxtreiuo  need,  timt  his  only 
chanco  of  reaching  tho  boat  depended 
upon  taliing  advantiigo  of  such  a  mo- 
ment, when  tho  turbulent  waves  could 
aid  him  more  than  his  own  strcngtii 
and  experience.  If  he  could  but  gain 
tho  boat,  and  get  tho  oars  into  his  own 
hands,  he  might  save  them  by  his  skill 
in  rowing,  which  was  more  necessary  in 
such  a  sea  than  even  courage  and  en- 
durance. 

Tho  two  unhappy  women  watched 
the  wave  carry  him  far  out  and  toss  him 
upon  its  summit  as  though  he  were  but 
a  feather ;  then  tliey  saw  him  struggling 
against  the  incoming  billows  that  hid 
him  entirely  from  their  sight.  They 
strained  their  eyes  into  tho  fast-gather- 
ing twilight,  their  anxiety  divided  be- 
tween the  solitary  swimmer  and  the  ex- 
hausted men  in  the  unmanageable  boat. 
Now  again  they  saw  Claude,  borne 
upon  the  summit  of  the  next  receding 
wave,  striking  out  boldly  and  fearlessly, 
while  right  before  him  rose  up  a  solid 
wall  of  water  that  curled  forward  with 
a  hissing  roar,  dashing  over  both  boat 
and  swimmer,  and  hiding  them  entirely 
from  the  sight  of  the  terrified  watchers. 

"My  God!"  cried  Elizabeth,  with 
blanched  cheeks,  "  I  fear  they  are  all 
lost." 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "  moaned  CcSlestc,  covering 
her  face  from  the  anger  of  the  sea.  "  I 
have  sent  him  to  death." 

"  Mother  of  God  I  have  mercy  upon 
them  ! "  implored  botii,  as  wave  after 
•wave  broke  at  their  feet. 

For  a  few  moments  they  strained 
their  eyes  in  vain  ;  then  Elizabeth  cried 
joyfully,  "I  see  the  boat,  and  it  is 
nearer." 

"  And  beyond,  is  not  that  Claude  1 " 
said  Celeste.  "  Look,  I  pray,  has  he  not 
passed  the  boat  1  Is  not  that  his  head 
beyond  the  foam  of  yonder  largo  wave  1 ' 

Alas !    it  was  true.     An   advancing 


billow  had  brought  tho  boat  noaror  tho 
shore,  but  returning  it  took  the  swim- 
mer with  it,  and  tho  next  doshod  tho 
little  bark  again  far  beyond  Claude. 
Hafiled,  tossed,  hurled  hero  aiul  there, 
it  seemed  as  though  both  must  perish. 

Another  moment  of  terrible  susiMsnse, 
another  moment  of  despair,  while  thoy 
again  lost  sight  of  both,  and  then  a  re- 
treating wave  showed  them  the  boat 
still  farther  away,  but  Claude  was  with- 
in a  few  yards  of  it  swinuning  vigor- 
ously. A  cry  of  joy  from  Klizalioth,  a 
sob  of  thanksgiving  from  Celeste,  told 
that  lio  had  reached  tho  little  bark, 
and  was  being  assisted  into  it  by  tho 
eager  hands  of  the  almost  ho])eleBs  men. 
Again  it  was  lost  to  sight,  to  appear  n 
moment  after  on  the  swell  of  a  billow. 
Claude  had  the  oara  and  was  swaying 
buck  and  forth  with  the  long,  dexterous 
strokes  that  brought  it  bounding  abuvo 
tho  waves  straight  and  sure  toward 
tho  shore.  A  moment  after,  with  a  roar 
aud  dash  of  the  surf,  the  boat  wtis 
thrown  far  upon  the  beach,  and  Claude, 
throwing  down  his  oars,  sprang,  followed 
by  tho  two  strangers  of  La  Croix  Verto, 
almost  into  the  arms  of  Elizabeth  and 
Celeste. 

The  two  women  with  a  cry  of  joy 
threw  themselves  upon  tho  breast  of 
tho  eldest  man,  aud  sobbed,  hiding  their 
faces  with  their  hands,  while  ho  clasped 
and  caressed  them  both. 

"  His  wife  and  his  daughter,"  thought 
Claude,  stooping  to  pick  up  his  coat  and 
hat.  "In  their  joy  they  have  no 
thoughts  of  me.  It  is  well.  Thank 
God,  I  have  saved  him  and  made  her 
happy  ! "  Then  vithout  another  glance 
at  the  excited  group  he  hurried  around 
tho  promontory,  and  climbing  up  tho 
rocks,  dripping  with  water,  exhausted 
with  his  straggle,  and  overpowered  with 
conflicting  emotions,  he  threw  himself 
upon  a  furze-covered  bank,  and  burying 
his  face  in  his  hands  wept  with  the 
abandon  and  passion  of  a  woman. 


:    L  PART  SIXTH. 

THE   aUATITlTDE  OF  A   POET. 

When  Claud©  reached  the  gate  of  the 
chateiui  it   was   already  dark,  and  the 


82 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


!- 1* 


men  were  aascmliled  in  the  hull  nnxiotis- 
ly  uwaitiii^  liiH  nrriviil.  After  linHtily 
chuiiging  liiH  wft  ^'iirmt'iits  for  Bonio  dry 
oncH,  ho  entered  with  his  UHiml  quiet 
manner  imd  pave  Hniile.  Hnt  Tristiin, 
who  luid  lodlied  deeper  tlmn  the  others 
into  liis  miiHtcr'H  heart,  saw  that  he  hud 
nut  returned  as  ho  went  out,  and  he 
also  sunuised  that  ho  had  sung  Apren  la 
hatitilU'  too  soon,  for  there  were  evident 
traees  of  another  and  a  more  serious 
engagement  thun  that  of  the  preceding 
day.  Still  he  was  very  calm  and  pa- 
tient, declining  firmly  hut  gently  Na- 
nette's pressing  invitation  to  partake  of 
the  supper  which  was  waiting,  and  dis- 
regarding Tristan's  anxious  suggestions 
that  1)0  had  hotter  nut  remain  in  the 
Imll,  heing  too  tired  to  talk  with  the 
men  that  night,  He  wont  through  his 
voluntary  duties  with  apparently  the 
same  interest  as  that  of  the  night  be- 
fore, and  there  even  seemed  a  deeper 
earnestness  in  his  advice,  an  undertone 
of  tenderness  and  sympathy  in  his  en- 
couragement, that  touched  the  heart  of 
every  man  among  them  with  a  rever- 
ence as  deep  as  their  affection  was  sin- 
cere. From  the  spear  of  anguish  lie 
had  won  the  crown  of  their  love ;  a 
einiplo  crown,  it  is  true,  looking  at  it 
with  earthly  eyes  ;  but  who  can  tell  what 
bright  gems  may  appear  when  it  is 
brought  into  the  effulgent  light  of 
eternity  1 

When  Tristan  spread  the  simple  re- 
past, Claude  excused  himself  and  retired, 
with  their  hearty  good-nights  and 
kind  wishes  sounding  gratefully  in  his 
ears.  In  his  room  Nanette  had  placed 
his  supper,  which  ho  partook  of  spar- 
ingly ;  then  ho  closed  his  door,  extin- 
guished his  light,  and,  throwing  himself 
upon  his  bed,  communed  with  his 
own  soul  and  was  still. 

The  next  morning  when  Claude  arose 
thoro  remained  no  trace  of  the  tempest 
of  the  previous  day ;  the  air  was  clear, 
and  crisp,  the  sky  without  a  cloud,  and 
the  Boa  as  blue  and  placid  as  thougVi 
the  rough  breath  of  the  wind  had  never 
swept  it  to  rugged  wrath,  as  though  it 
had  never  betrayed  its  trust,  never  en- 
gulfed an  unwilling  victim,  never  in- 
folded within  its  beguiling  bosom,  a 
thousand  hopes  and  joys.  "  Ah,  Nature  ! 
thou  hast  thy  moods  of  passion  and  an- 


guish, ns  well  as  humanity,"  ho  exclaimed ; 
for  ho  renu?mbered  how  ho  had  gone 
fortli  in  tho  monnng  with  smiles  and 
simsiuno,  and  how  he  had  returned  at 
night  with  tears  and  clouds.  "Can  it 
be  tho  same  sea  into  which  I  plunged 
to  con(pier  it  or  perish.  It  was  a  cruel 
struggle,  but,  thanks  be  to  (•  )d,  with 
tho  waves  of  death  around  me  I  was 
happier  than  ever  before.  0  Ct'Iesto, 
my  darling  !  in  eternity  thou  wilt  know 
how  I  have  trampled  upon  my  heart." 
He  felt  a  stronj'  desire  to  see  again  tho 
scene  of  his  suffering  and  liis  triumj)h, 
tho  spot  whore  she  had  stood  weeping 
and  trembling  before  him,  where  she 
had  said,  "  I  lovo  yon  always,"  and 
where  he  in  return  had  laid  the  greatest 
treasure  a  man  has  to  give,  his  life,  at 
her  feet.  When  he  reochcd  tho  little 
inlet,  there  was  no  trace  of  tho  tragic 
scene  of  the  previous  night,  save  the 
broken  boat  dashed  high  upon  the  shore, 
and  near  it  a  band  of  blue  ribbon  with 
a  few  yellow  hairs  fastened  into  the 
knot.  "  The  wind  tore  it  from  her  pre- 
cious head  to  give  to  mo,"  he  cried, 
pressing  it  with  strong  passion  to  his 
lips.  There  was  a  subtle  odor  of  violets 
about  it ;  he  remembered  that  it  liad 
always  been  her  favorite  perfume  ;  and 
while  ho  looked  at  it  a  thousand  tender 
memories  filled  his  heart,  a  thousand 
sweet  longings  stirred  the  very  depths 
of  his  soul.  His  thoughts  leaped  tho 
chasm  of  time  and  distance,  and  ho  be- 
lieved himself  to  be  again  at  Clermont, 
wandering  through  the  laurel-shaded 
walks  with  the  hand  of  Celeste  clasped 
in  his.  He  lived  over  again  the  brief 
days  of  their  love,  ho  felt  the  timid 
pressure  of  the  first  kiss,  the  soft  eyes 
seemed  to  look  into  his  with  shy  delight, 
tho  waves  of  her  hair  to  blow  across  his 
cheek.  Then  a  new  emotion  sprung  to 
life  within  him ;  patenial  yearnings 
strong  and  sweet,  filled  his  soul ;  little 
children's  hands  seemed  to  tug  at  his 
heart-strings,  and  baby  faces  seemed  to 
fill  the  air  around  him.  C61este  married 
and  perhaps  a  mother,  —  what  an  angel 
of  maternity  !  For  a  moment  he  forgot 
that  another,  and  not  he,  was  her  hus- 
band ;  and  so  lost  was  he  in  the  tender 
revoiy  that  ho  did  not  hear  approaching 
footsteps  until  some  one  spoke  his  name ; 
then,  like  a  detected  culprit,  ho  hastily 


ity,"  ho  exclaimed; 

how   he   hitd  gone 

|g  with  BiiiilcH  nnd 

|e  hnd  retiiriiod  at 

cIoikIh.     "  Can  it 

wliich  I  phinged 

h.     It  was  a  cruel 

JH  be  to  IJ  )d,  with 

around  mo  I  was 

cforc.     0   Celeste, 

ity  thou  wilt  know 

Id  upon  my  heart." 

re  to  see  again  the 

j;  and  Iuh  triumph, 

had  stood  weeping 

e  him,  where    slio 

yon   always,"  and 

ad  laid  the  greatest 

to  give,  his  life,  at 

:  reached  the  little 

trace  of  the  tragic 

)us  night,  save  the 

ligh  upon  the  shore, 

of  l)lue  ribbon  with 

I  fastened  into   the 

tore  it  from  her  prc- 

to   me,"  he  cried, 

rong  passion  to  his 

subtle  odor  of  violets 

Tfibercd  that  it  had 

•orite  perfume  ;  and 

it  a  thousand  tender 

s  heart.,  a  thousand 

red  the  very  depths 

thoughts  leaped  the 

distance,  and  ho  bc- 

j  again  at  Clermont, 

I    tho    laurel-shaded 

id  of  Celeste  clasped 

over  again  the  brief 

,  ho  felt  the   timid 

rt  kiss,  the  soft  eyes 

his  with  shy  delight, 

lir  to  blow  across  his 

w  emotion  sprung  to 

paternal   yearnings 

filled  his  soul ;  little 

jemed  to  tug  at  his 

mby  faces  seemed  to 

im.     C61este  married 

ler,  —  what  an  angel 

p  a  moment  he  forgot 

lot  he,  was  her  hus- 

vaa  he  in  the  tender 

lot  hear  approaching 

;  one  spoke  his  name ; 

d  culprit,  ho  hastily 


A  CROWN  FROM  TIIK  SPEAR. 


83 


concc;ilud  tho  rilibon,  as  he  turned  a 
glowing  face  upon  the  new-comer.  It 
was  the  younger  man  of  tho  two  whom 
ho  had  rowed  to  tho  shore  the  previous 
day,  who,  holding  out  his  hand  to  Claude, 
said  with  a  franit,  ])leaMant  hniile,  "  Al- 
low me,  M.  lo  Conjte,  to  express  this 
morning  the  gratitiule  that  we  should 
have  given  free  utterance  to  last  night 
if  you  hud  not  deprive<l  us  of  the  pleas- 
ure by  disappearing  so  mysteriously." 

ClaiKlo  took  the  proffered  hand  cor- 
dially ;  but  said,  gravely,  "  Do  not  waste 
gratitude  on  mo  ;  give  it  to  a  mightier 
than  I,  without  whoso  aid  I  too  shoidd 
have  perished. "  Then  seeing  his  com- 
panion looked  rather  disconcerted  at  the 
Horioiisnoss  of  his  reply,  he  added  in  a 
lighter  touo,  "  You  have,  monsieur,  a 
docidod  advantage  over  me,  as  I  have 
not  tho  honor  of  knowing  your  title." 

"  My  name  is  simply  Philip  Raymond, 
and  a  must  ridiculous  misnomer  it  is,  as 
I  am  neither  fond  of  horses  nor  a  [)ow- 
crful  protector,  still  I  am  vaiu  enough 
to  think  it  is  not  quite  unknown  to  you." 

Claude,  with  no  little  confusion,  po- 
litely assured  him  that  ho  had  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  it  then  for  the  first 
time. 

"Ah,"  he  laughed,  "another  death- 
blow to  my  egotism.  Then  you  have 
never  read  'Sabrina'  or  'Thamyris,'  both 
of  which  have  been  translated  into  your 
language  1 " 

Claude  regretted  to  say  that  ho  never 
had. 

"  From  that  I  presume,  M.  lo  Comte, 
that  you  are  not  acquainted  with  the 
recent  literature  of  England,  nor  with 
the  literary  circles  of  Paris." 

Claude  assured  him  that  ho  knew 
nothing  of  the  modem  literature  of 
England,  and  that  he  had  not  been  in 
Paris  for  some  years.  In  fact,  ho  was 
not  familiar  with  the  fashionable  world, 
having  lived  for  tho  last  five  years  en- 
tirely among  the  mountains  and  on 
the  sea-coasts  with  shepherds,  peasants, 
and  fishermen. 

"  Vrainient ! "  exclaimed  Raymond,  in 
very  West  End  French,  looking  at  Claude 
with  wide-open  eyes ;  "  well,  you  are 
certainly  an  original.  Let  us  sit  here," 
pointing  to  a  flat  stone  that  offered  a 
comfortable  seat,  "for  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  say,  and  I  never  can  talk  well 


standing.  I  frankly  avow  that  it  is 
rather  mortifying  to  my  self-eHtoem  to 
find  that  you  don't  know  as  much  of 
me  as  I  do  of  you.  Hut  how  can  I  bo 
so  absurd  as  to  expect  a  Frenchman, 
perched  in  an  old  chateau  on  the  penin- 
sula of  Rhuys,  to  know  al)out  every 
Engli^sh  fellow  who  scriiibles,  and  whose 
uiiuieisfashionable  in  thesaloonsof  ParisI 
Now  wo  have  learned  from  Lo  Proprie- 
taire  do  la  Croix  Verte,  after  describing 
tho  heroic  stranger  who  swam  off  so 
boldly  to  save  us  from  total  destruction, 
that  it  cotdd  be  no  other  than  M.  lo 
Comto  do  Clermont,  owner  of  the  tum- 
bledown chateau  on  the  hill,  who  loaves 
a  fine  estate  in  Normandy  to  rove  around 
Brittany,  feeding  and  educating  dirty 
children,  tishorinen,  peasants,  and  in 
short  all  tho  canaille  who  cross  his 
path." 

Claude  laughed  heartily,  relieved  to 
know  that  neither  of  the  ladies  had 
spoken  of  the  scene  that  passed  before 
ho  swam  off  to  tho  rescue,  and  that  at 
least  Raymond  had  never  hoard  of  his 
previous  engagement  to  Celeste,  nor  of 
the  tragedy  of  Chateau  do  Clermont,  and 
said,  laying  his  hand  on  tho  shoulder  of 
Ills  companion  as  a  token  of  good-will, 
"  Well,  mon  ami,  is  what  you  have 
heard  of  my  eccentricities  any  reason 
for  discontinuing  an  acquaintance  begun 
under  such  heart-stirring  circumstan- 
ces T' 

"  Ah,  no  indeed,  my  brave  fellow  ! 
you  are  a  jewel  that  I  have  found  hero 
on  the  sands  of  this  dreary  shore,  which 
r  shall  wear  upon  my  heart  forever. 
Or,  in  plain  langtiage,  my  gratitude  and 
my  admiration  of  your  courage  make 
me  desire  your  friendship  as  tho  greatest 
of  treasures." 

Claude  did  not  reply  at  once ;  ho  felt 
unaccountably  drawn  to  this  young  man, 
who,  ho  thought,  must  be  in  some  way 
related  to  the  husband  of  Celeste ; 
through  him  he  could  learn  much  that 
he  wished  to  know,  and,  beside,  his 
frank  and  vivacious  manner  pleased 
him  ;  yet  he  did  not  wish  to  encourage 
a  friendship  mider  false  pretences,  for 
ho  could  not  accept  the  confidence  of 
any  man  without  giving  his  own  in 
return.  Seeing  his  companion  waited 
for  some  acquiescence  on  his  part,  he 
said,   "  Monsieur   Raymond,   I   do   not 


■  Irifciin    '.i^iiinhiijji 


muM^ii"  >>ii  t'llii 


81 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


!;,ii 


I 


mlmit  *lmt,  I  liiive  nny  clairiiH  upon 
voiir  i^^iiititiiilu  or  adiiiirutioii,  nnd  |iur- 
JiiipH  you  inivy  ovi'u  tliiiik  nio  unwrtliv 
}'(>ur  t'Hteoin  wluMi  you  know  ttDiiiotliin^ 
of  my  history.  [  luii  exiled  froui  my 
OHtiito  l>y  tlio  MUHpicioii  of  ii  horrible 
eriiiio,  of  whicli  I  uin  iuiioci'ut,  but  I 
liavu  no  mtnniH  of  proviti^  it.  I  enn 
make  no  further  oxplaimtiou.  Do  you 
Mtil!  wish  for  my  frieudHhij)? " 

"  f  »h»,"  replied  Iho  other,  warmly, 
"without  explanation  or  extenuation. 
1  like  you,  iiuil  thut  in  enou^fh." 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  Buid  L'luude,  a 
little  nervouMly,  "  wlio  your  companion 
of  yesterday  \^,  and  what  rcltttionship 
yo>i  hear  to  iiim]" 

"  None  whatever  but  the  relation 
of  a  family  friendwhip.  Sir  Edward 
Courtnay  wns  a  fellow-student  with  my 
father.  He  introduced  me  into  I'ariHiun 
Hociety,  and  to  hiu  daughter  Elizabetii, 
and  I  am  in  love  with  b<>th,  and  both 
arc  ungrateful  for  not  returning  my 
nfl'ection.  Society  flatters  mo  and 
abuses  mo  at  the  same  time.  It  calls 
me  a  boor,  and  yet  it  courts  mo.  The 
grand  ladies  of  the  Faubourg  St.  (Jer- 
main  ask  mo  to  scribblo  verses  in  their 
albums,  and  make  grimaces  behind  my 
back  whilo  I  am  doing  it ;  and  the 
leaders  of  the  dfmi  monJe  invite  me 
to  their  little  suppers,  simply  because 
I  amuse  them ;  for  they  know  I  have 
no  nv  icy  to  squander  on  opera-boxes 
and  bouquets.  0  monsieur  !  tho  world 
of  Paris  is  a  queer  world,  but  it  is 
Elizabeth,  it  is  Elizabeth,  that  tries  me 
beyond  endurance.  She  heats  mo  to  a 
flame  witli  her  beauty  and  goodness, 
and  then  she  chills  mo  with  her  cold, 
calm,  conventual  ways.  I  knew  her 
when  I  was  a  child,  and  I  used  to  steal 
my  grandmother's  choicest  roses  to  give 
her ;  she  was  a  littlo  tyrant  then,  and 
made  me  cry  often  with  her  caprices. 
Her  mother  died,  and  then  her  father, 
who  has  lieen  all  his  life  a  lounger 
about  Paris,  and  who  has  squandered 
two  or  three  fortunes,  first  his  own, 
then  his  wife's,  and  lastly  any  one's  else 
that  he  could  lay  his  spendthrift  hands 
upon,  came  and  took  her  away  to  a 
French  school.  There  she  formed  a 
strong  attachment  for  the  present  Lady 
Courtnay,  who  had  been  inveigled  into 
the  same  convent  with  her — Notre  Dame 


I  do  Houon,  I  think  it  was  —  aKaiimt  her 
riwn  inelination,  through  the  wiK-h  of 
her  guardian,  who  is  a  bishop,  or  sonio- 
thing  of  the  sort,  and  who  doubtless 
wiNliod  to  get  her  fortune  for  the  (  hiui  h. 
The  p<Nir  girl  made  a  conlldaiite  <>f 
Klizal)!  th,  who  took  her  under  her 
strong  f>rotocti«>n,  and  wrote  miuI>  piti- 
ful litfefH  to  her  pupa  about  hn  nuich- 
abiised  and  lovely  prutl'ijve ,  that  Sir 
Edward  was  iutereMte<l,  and  made  a 
visit  to  his  daughter  for  the  tirst  time, 
when  ho  succeeded  in  getting  a  jiliuqiso 
of  tho  fair  I'^leste.  Her  beauty  charmed 
him,  and  tho  renuiiuder  of  her  fortune, 
that  hud  escaped  the  cluteiics  of  tho 
Church,  won  him.  When  Elizabeth  had 
finished  her  etlucation,  Madcnu)isel!o 
Mouthelon's  two  novitiate  years  were 
just  ended  ;  an<l  refusing  to  take  tho 
veil  she  was  allowed  to  depart,  after 
making  a  handsome  donati(ju  to  the 
order.  Her  guardian,  linrling  she  was 
stubborn  and  would  not  be  a  mm, 
laised  no  objection  to  her  marriago 
with  Sir  Edward  Courtnay,  which  took 
place  two  years  ago." 

"  Poor  girl,"  sighed  Claude,  —  "  poor 
girl." 

"  Yes,  yoti  may  well  say  that,  for 
cntre  noit»  lie  is  a  great  rascal,  and  I 
hate  him  ti  Votitrance ;  but  he  was  my 
father's  friend,  and  I  love  Elizabeth, 
and  so  I  let  him  live.  Ho  has  spent 
every  pound  of  his  daughter's  fortune, 
and  now  ho  is  making  ducks  and  drakes 
of  tho  remainder  of  his  wife's ;  and  very 
soon  both  poor  things  will  bo  left  with 
nothing.  I  am  a  miserably  careless 
fellow  myself,  with  very  littlo  good  in 
me,  but  there  is  still  enough  left  to 
make  mo  despise  a  man  who  robs  a 
woman." 

"  Can  nothing  be  done,"  inquired 
Claude,  sadly,  "  to  secure  to  lier  what 
remains  1 " 

"  Nothing ;  her  father  left  all  to  her 
unconditionally,  and  she  gives  it  to  him. 
She  is  a  child  with  no  strength  nor 
decision  of  character ;  and  my  glorious 
Elizabeth  watches  over  her  as  though 
she  were  her  daughter,  instead  of  being 
her  step-mother.  There  is  something 
touching  in  their  friendship  for  each 
other." 

"  She  mtist  l)e  a  noble  character  and 
a  very  angel   of  goodness,"   exclaimed 


8  —  iiRiiin«t  licr 
fh  the  wili'H  uf 
littliup,  or  Honiu- 

Whl)    dolll'tlcHH 

I)  for  tlio  <  'limch. 
coiif'i(lanto    of 

licr    iiii(lor    licr 

wrote  HiK'l>  piti- 

liliollt  lllT  Diiich- 
itiyir,  tliat  Sir 
nnd  iiiiulu  n 
tlio  firHt   time, 

ettiiig  a  ^;liiii|jso 

l)(.'uiit y  clmniiLil 
r  of  her  fortune, 

clutclicB  of  tlio 
on  Klizahetli  hud 
ri,    Mtidenioisellu 

into  years  wcro 
ling  to  take  tlio 

to  dt  part,  after 
lonation  to  tlio 
tiiuling  she   wau 

not  1)0  a  nun, 
o  lier  niarriago 
;nny,  which  took 


A  chown  from  the  spear. 


85 


Maiido, 


poor 


11   say  that,   for 

lat  ru»cal,  and  I 

hut  he  was  my 

lovo  Klizahetli, 

.     Ho  has  spout 

ughtcr's  fortune, 

iucks  and  drakes 

wife's ;  and  very 

will  ho  left  with 

isomhly   careless 

ry  little  good  in 

I   enough  left  to 

aau   who  robs  a 

done,"   inquired 
:ure  to  her  what 

er  loft  all  to  hor 
e  gives  it  to  him. 
no  strength  nor 
and  my  glorious 
r  her  as  though 
instead  of  being 
TO  is  something 
mdship  for  each 

)le  character  and 
uess,"   exclaimed 


Clunde  with  so  much  warmth  that  Kay 
r.ioiiil  looked  at  him  jealonHly,  and  tlien 
continued  with  somu  blttcnieM  in  hiu 
tone,  — 

"  0  yes,  she  is  all  goodueHs  to  every 
one  hut  mu ;  she  \h  a  kIuvu  to  licr 
ftitlicr'H  tyranny  ami  I-ady  Ccleste'H 
whims,  lint  to  mo  hIi^  is  an  icicle,  and 
yot  1  love  her  hotter  than  life." 

"  rerliups,  with  all  her  inditforence, 
she  loves  you,"  snggeistod  Claudo  ;  "hut 
your  eiiroloss  principlo.i  may  shock  her, 
or  hor  motives  of  prudctico  may  prevent 
her  ridiii  exproHHing  what  hIio  feels." 

•'  It  m:iy  1)0,  for  it  is  true  that  I  am 
a  good  fi  r  iiothiiijr,  and  there  is  little 
in  mo  for  a  noble  worn,  ii  to  love 
JSonuitimos  I  think  circumstances  have 
made  me  what  I  am,"  he  wont  on,  re- 
flectively gathering  together  a  moinn' 
of  sca-wcetl  and  shells  with  thi;  point 
of  his  Ntick.  "You  must  know  that  we 
are  all  tho  slaves  of  circumstances. 
Prosperity  is  a  beguiling,  aii.i  Kortuno 
a  fickle  jado.  I  am  a  living  [imof  of 
their  inconstancy, 
life    mv  heart  was 


was  just,    I  was   a 
iideueo  and  truth, 
mother,    God  bless 


When  1  began 
pure  and  my  way 
very  child  m  con- 
My  dear  old  grand- 
hor    soul,    brought 


mo  uj)  a  thorough  mutf  my  mother 
died  at  my  birth ;  and  my  father,  who 
was  an  only  child,  was  soon  after  killed 
in  an  engagement  in  India,  where  he 
was  at  tliat  time  stationed ;  and  I  was 
sent  home,  a  little  bundle  of  linen  and 
tears,  >  tho  dear  old  lady,  who  took  me 
to  her  heart  as  though  I  had  been  an 
angel,  and  educated  mo  as  though  I 
had  been  a  girl.  She  and  tho  rector, 
between  them,  taught  mo  crochet, 
music,  and  drawing,  with  a  little  smat- 
tering of  Greek  and  Latin.  Tho  rector 
was  a  sentimental  spoon,  and  encour- 
aged my  dreamy  proclivities.  My 
grandmother  feared  the  cold  and  the 
heat  for  mo.  I  never  mounted  a  horse, 
bocauBO  I  might  be  thrown,  I  never 
skated,  because  the  ice  might  break 
under  mo.  I  never  rowed,  because  I 
might  1)0  overturned  and  drowned ; 
and  yesterday's  exploit  shows  how  near 
such  a  prediction  came  to  being  true.  I 
never  fenced  or  boxed,  because  I  might 
twist  my  arms  out  of  their  sockets.  1 
never  ran  or  jumped,  because  my  ankles 
were  weak.      I  never  played  at  ball  or 


cricket,  beoauso  my  bmgs  were  <leiicatH. 
And  I  never  touihed  a  ~^\\\\,  JMcauso  my 
fatlii'r  hud  been  shot  by  one.  In  short, 
I  did  notlniig  but  sit  at  my  d  ir  old 
lady's  feet  and  weep  with  her  oyer  tho 
doKj)air  of  Werther  and  the  sorrows 
>>f  Alon/.o  and  MeliMsn.  At  sixtoou,  I 
waM  a  thorou^'hly  gipod  child,  what  tho 
Spanisli  call  a  Marcia  Kcrnande/,  a  girl- 
hoy.  Klizahetli  was  nty  only  littlu 
playmate,  and  at  eighteen  I  was  des- 
perately in  h)ve  with  hor ;  then  sho  was 
taken  away  to  France,  and  for  a  timo 
I  was  diisconsolate,  hut  soon  after  a 
sweet  young  creature  cainr  to  stay  at 
tho  rectory,  —  she  was  an  angel  ready- 
made  for  heaven,  an<i  only  lent  to 
earth  to  show  us  what  coniiianionsliip 
we  shall  have  hereafter  I  loved  her 
with  tho  reverence  we  feel  for  some- 
thing lioly.  It  was  the  romance  of  my 
life,  and  it  opened  the  fountain  of  song 
within  my  heart.  I  wrote  sweet,  sen- 
tinicntal  things,  which  my  grund- 
m'tiur  and  tho  rector  thought  <|uito 
equal  to  anything  Byron  wrote  in  his 
youth,  and  which  tho  London  maga- 
zines thought  worth — nothing.  1  can- 
not describe  to  you  tho  joy,  the  rapture 
of  tho  moment  when  I  showed  my, 
first  printed  poem  to  my  adored  Grace. 
It  was  a  sonnet  to  herself,  in  praise 
of  her  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair.  It 
was  weak,  but  it  was  sweet,  and  pleased 
my  darling.  O  my  God !  that  wo 
should  live  to  smile  in  contempt  at  tho 
fiist  pure  stream  of  fancy,  that  wo 
should  live  to  prefer  tho  red  wine  of 
later  years,  heated  and  unholy  with 
passion  and  vice ;  but  so  it  is,  I  some- 
times laugh  and  weep  at  the  same  timo 
over  my  early  effusions.  For  another 
year  I  continued  to  send  my  delicate 
rose-leaves  floating  down  tho  literary 
tide,  to  he  gathered  up  by  broad-and- 
buttor  misses  and  amorous  theological 
students.  Then  the  lilies  of  my  fancy 
became  tinged  with  purple.  My  heart 
was  pierced,  and  the  blood  flowed  forth, 
touching  with  a  deeper  hue  tho  pale 
flowers  of  my  life.  One  morning,  it 
was  the  last  day  of  the  year,  and  the 
earth  was  folded  in  a  shroud  of  snow, 
I  went  to  tho  rectory  and  looked  for 
the  last  time  upon  my  Grace  beforj 
the  heavens  shut  her  from  my  sight. 
She  lay  in  her  saintly  robes,    for    I 


8G 


A  CROWN   FIIOII    i.lK  HVV.Ml 


Mwcar  thoHo  hIio  wpurH  i.i  lioiivoiv  nro 
DO  piiriT,  witli  '>rtly  cloHod  vyi>,  uiiil 
IiuiiiIh  tiK'ckly  cliirtpeil  ovur  u  liiiiicli  of 
iiliLH  iipoii  lior  hrt'iiHt."  Ilcru  IiIh  voicu 
wiiH  lirokcn  with  cinotioii,  und  Ivun 
iliiimiid  liin  cjch.  "  TIio  iiiuiiiory  of 
lliiit  itii^cl  ineltN  niu  to  wuupiii^  even 
now,"  lio  Hitiil,  uftiir  a  fuw  iiionu  .Ih 
isiU'iRv.  '  'I'liua  thu  foiuituiim  of  i^ny 
liciirt  wrro  hrokun  up,  und  I  »uh 
dt^lii^jfd  with  my  own  pii«Hioniito  i n.- 
Tliu  Htioiaim  of  fancy  ^ntihcd  forth  wih 
doiililo  force  und  HWuelnoHH  ;  uliuil  now 
they  ure  tmhid  und  tt>  led.  I'ndcr 
'he  influence  of  my  tiroi  emotion,  I 
wrote  my  tirst  novel,  It  was  u  siniple 
}iuHt()rul  Htory,  hut  it  \^'M  written  witli 
tiie  teiirH  of  my  lienrt.  I  nroso  from 
my  lied  nt  ni;;lit  witli  throbhiu)^'  pulHCH 
and  feverish  hrain.  My  houI  filled  with 
the  sorrow  of  my  hero,  I  pu'  '  my 
lonely  chnmher  und  wept  over  tl.'  voes 
I  jMirtruyed.  1  wrote  it  wiih  a  <..r;glo 
heart,  a  jjuro  desire,  a  fervent  lovo.  It 
.UH  the  true  '  filing  1  ever  did,  and  yet 
the  world  wn^  iilind  to  its  truth.  I 
fo\ind  a  puhlibiier,  rxnd  sent  it  forth 
with  the  prayers  und  hope?  that  a 
mother  senda  after  her  tinst-horn.  It 
attracted  little  attention,  the  critics 
hnndled  it  grudgingly,  neither  condemn- 
ing nur  approving,  and  its  few  readers 
were  clergymen's  daughters,  gover- 
nesses, and  boarding-8ch(K)l  misses.  I 
do  not  iinow  whether  the  publishers 
sold  enough  to  compensnto  themselves, 
I  only  know  that  I  received  nothing. 
Yet  1  was  not  discoiiraged.  I  kept  on 
with  my  fugitive  verses,  infusing  into 
them  a  little  more  strength  and  color, 
until  now  and  then  came  a  faint  hrcnth 
of  approval  from  the  autocrats  of  the 
press.  Then  my  dear  old  grandmother 
died,  and  left  mo  her  slender  income. 
I  sold  the  cottage  where  I  had  dreamed 
away  my  rose-leaf  existence,  and,  fol- 
lowed by  the  blessings  of  the  good 
spoon  who  had  turned  nn  out  a  weak- 
ling, I  set  my  face  toward  London. 
There  a  new  world  opened  before  me. 
I  plunged  into  a  fountain  of  life  that 
invigorated  me.  My  soul  was  filled 
■with  ardor.  I  burned  to  see,  to  know, 
to  experience  all.  I  desired  to  taste 
of  every  emotion.  I  poured  out  the 
red  wine  of  my  life  freely  like  water, 
and  the  parched  sands  drank  it  greedily. 


I  wrote  pasMionatel}-,  but  with  enough 
of  truth  to  keep  mu  t'luui  pi't.iiiarity 
and  wealth.  Kor  a  year  I  whirled  in 
the  bewildering  vortex  of  fabhinn  luul 
<li(tMipution,  and  in  that  year  I  hpeut  tiii ; 
I  was  buukru|it  in  ull  imt  truth.  ) 
swore  I  woidd  not  prostitute  my  tulent 
for  filthy  lucre  ;  I  scorned  tlii)  t(  iu|itiiig 
otl'ers  (if  Hensutionul  Journalists  and  uii- 
serupulouH  pulilisliers  ;  but  ut  lust,  iit 
last,  there  remained  but  this,"  — muking 
a  .iipher  in  the  sund, --  "and  1  was  too 
proud  to  beg,  und  loved  lil'e  too  wdi  to 
starve,  so  I  was  obliged  to  delile  uiul 
sell  what  (>od  had  given  to  me.  ^ly 
cheeks  burning  with  shame,  I  strmig 
together  my  first  collection  of  false 
gems  ;  I  will  admit  that  there  werr  « 
few  true  ones  among  them,  b:it  tuly 
enough  to  make  the  paste  more  gliw'n;^. 
The  world  received  them  and  went 
frantic  over  them.  One  nuirning,  like 
Ilyron,  1  nwokc  and  found  myself 
famous.  Honors  flowed  in  ti])on  me, 
I  was  the  fluttered  pet  of  the  /'((.  i  viuiu'v. 
Titled  ladies  bowed  to  me,  and  showed 
their  false  teeth  in  duzzling  KU.iieu,  and 
swore  to  the  sweetest  lies,  (kcluring 
that  my  iioenis  were  divine,  and  avowed 
that  if  they  were  immoral  the  im- 
moralities were  so  nicely  veiled  that 
they  could  not  discover  them.  The 
itfmi  monde  lauded  mc,  and  a])p1audcd 
the  courage  with  which  I  paraded  my 
wanton  fancies,  protested  thnt  my  ideas 
were  deliciously  fresh  and  origiiiul,  und 
ussured  me  of  their  warmest  sii])port. 
The  critics  pounced  upon  me  like  vul- 
tures upon  their  prey ;  there  was  some- 
thing pungent,  flagrant,  und  nuiterial 
for  them  to  tear  in  pieces,  for  the 
delectation  of  their  minions ;  they  fought 
vigorously  over  the  unworthy  carcass, 
some  denouncing,  some  defending,  and 
all  devouring  eagerly  the  choicest  nn>r- 
sels.  The  pulpit  opened  its  batteries 
upon  mo,  the  high-toned  and  dainty, 
firing  small  and  well-selected  sliot, 
while  the  coarser  and  more  truthful 
thundered  out  volley  after  volley  of 
indiscriminate  projectiles ;  and  indig- 
nant matrons  styled  my  songs  the 
bowlings  of  a  loosened  demon  that 
walked  the  pure  earth  to  blight  it. 
But  all  their  fierce  censure  did  not 
crush  me.  On  the  contrary,  I  bccamo 
more  popular.     Straight  upon  this  ex- 


)(it.  witli  I'liniifjh 
Iruiii  |M'|>uliirity 
iiir   I   wliirlod  in 

of     fusliiiiii   lllltl 

ycur  I  hpiMit  iili ; 
I  liiit  tnitli.  i 
itilutu  riiy  ttilcnt 
lud  till!  t('in|itiii;,' 
iriitiliHtM  iiiid  uii- 
liiit  nt  luKt,  lit 
L  tliis," — iiiukiii); 

-  "UIhI   1   WIIH  toil 

■d  life  too  Will  to 
ed  to  dulilu  iit.d 
ven  to  inc.  My 
kIiuiuc,  I  btriiii); 
llcctiou  or  fulso 
mt  tliero  weir  a 

tlu'in,  l):it  uiily 
[Hto  more  uliu  inj^ 
tliciii    aiid    went 
no  rnorniufr,  liko 
1    found    ni)Bt'lf 
cd    in   iipon  nio, 
)f  thc^fc  1  vion(<'. 
D  inc,  und  ulio^^ed 
izling  Ku.ilcR,  and 
it    lies,    (kcliiring 
ivino,  und  avowed 
uiuioral    tho   iu- 
icely   veiled    that 
iver    them.      Tlie 
0,  and  nijjjlnudcd 
uh  I  paraded  my 
ted  that  my  ideas 
und  original,  and 
warmest  Kiijiport. 
ipon  mo  liiie  vul- 
;  there  was  some- 
mt,   and  material 
n  pieces,  for   tho 
iiions ;  tliey  fought 
unworthy  carcass, 
lie  defending,  and 
the  choicest  mor- 
med    its  hatteries 
:oncd  and  dainty, 
rcll-selected    shot, 
[\d   more  truthful 
Y  after  volley  of 
tiles ;    und    indig- 
d    my   songs    tho 
ned    demon    that 
,rth   to    blight  it. 

censure  did  not 
lontrary,  I  becamo 
ght  upon  this  cx- 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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1.0 


I.I 


11.25 


1^128     }l^5 

no  *^~     H^^l 

tt&  Uii   122 

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V  . 


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1 


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HiotDgraphic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


•y 


23  WZST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)872-4503 


m 


k 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


: 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microraproductions  historiquas 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


n 


■ 


cited  sen  of  public  opinion  I  launched 
another  novel,  entitled  'Dragon's Teeth.' 
The  publishers  quarrelled  over  it,  one 
outbidding  the  other  like  sporting-men 
at  the  sale  of  a  fancy  horse.  The  higlicst 
bidder  become  its  godfather,  and  it 
was  ushered  into  the  literary  world 
with  pecans  and  shouts  and  flourish 
of  trumpets,  and  received  with  all  the 
demonstrations  that  should  have  hon- 
ored the  advent  of  a  work  of  great 
genius,  and  yet  I  do  not  exaggerate 
when  I  say  it  was  trash.  It  was  worse, 
it  was  claptrap.  It  was  manufactured 
sentiment.  It  cost  neither  thought  nor 
emotion.  I  wrote  it  with  dull  head  and 
\msteady  hand,  after  a  night  of  de- 
bauchery. It  was  composed  of  the 
vilest  material,  the  most  improbable 
scenes,  decorated  with  the  most  glaring 
tinsel,  and  befouled  with  the  falsest 
sophistry.  Even  the  title  had  not  the 
remotest  connection  with  the  tale.  It 
was  all  sensational,  all  false  ;  and  yet,  as 
I  told  you,  it  was  received  with  eager- 
ness, and  sold  with  astonishing  rapidity, 
establishing  my  reputation  as  an  author 
of  undoubted  genius ;  and  yet  there 
were  hours  when  I  wept  with  shame 
over  my  debased  talents,  despising  my- 
self when  I  compared  my  gaudily  decked 
deception  with  my  first  pure  creation 
that  the  world  had  allowed  to  fall 
unacknowledged  into  a  premature  grave. 
Pardon  me,  perhaps  I  weary  you  with 
my  long  story  1 " 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Claude.  "  Pray, 
go  on ;  I  am  interested  to  know  why 
you  left  such  brilliant  success  in  Lon- 
don, to  live  in  Paris." 

"Yes,  certainly,  that  is  the  dinoue- 
ment  without  which  the  miserable  his- 
tory is  incomplete.  I  spent  money 
faster  than  I  earned  it.  You  know  the 
result, /aeiYw  descensus  Avemi"  he  con- 
tinued, looking  contemplatively  at  the 
SEtnd,  whereon  he  was  drawing,  with 
the  pomt  of  his  stick,  a  tolerably  good 
caricature  of  himself  flying  from  a  long- 
legged  dun  with  a  bundle  of  bills  under 
his  arm.  "  Now  this  explains  it,"  he 
said,  finishing  it  off  with  a  flourishing 
scroll  proceeding  from  his  own  mouth, 
on  which  he  wrote  in  large  letters,  ah 
inconvenietUi.  "  Do  you  understand  ? 
It  is  not  convenient  to  be  locked  up, 
when  one  depends  on  bis  circulation  for 


his  life,  so  I  thought  the  Continent  the 
best  place  for  me.  Here  I  live  a  sort 
of  Bohemian  existence  ;  sometimes  lux- 
uriously, sometimes  very  simply  ;  but 
always  within  the  income  I  receive 
from  my  publishers.  One  thing  I  have 
sworn,  and  to  that  I  intend  to  keep. 
It  is  to  avoid  debt  as  one  would  a  pes- 
tilence. It  has  ruined  mc,  and  blighted 
me  worse  than  the  leprosy ;  for  it  has 
not  only  driven  mo  from  my  people, 
but  it  has  driven  me  from  my  country. 
If  it  were  not  for  debt,  I  might  return 
to  England  and  settle  down  into  a 
decent  member  of  society  ;  then  per- 
haps Elizabeth  would  listen  to  mo." 

"  I  think,"  said  Claude,  earnestly, 
"you  might  settle  down  respectably 
even  in  France.  Remain  here  awhile 
with  me,  and  draw  strength  from  these 
rugged  shores  and  stern  rocks.  Hero 
are  subjects  for  romance  of  the  most 
stirring  kind.  Chivalry  and  heroism 
have  bloomed  and  flourished  beautifully 
here.  Take  for  a  subject  the  early 
struggles  of  La  Vend«$e,  or  the  tragedy 
of  Quiberon  ;  from  either  you  can  gath- 
er material  of  the  most  noble  character, 
examples  of  the  most  lofty  courago  and 
tender  sacrifice.  Remain  here,  and  I 
will  show  you  that  there  is  a  deeper 
peace  and  happiness  to  be  found  in 
such  a  life  than  one  can  experience  in 
the  gay  and  illusive  world." 

"You  are  kind,"  replied  Raymond, 
gratefully,  "but  I  have  not  a  strong 
soul  like  you,  nor  a  nature  superior  to 
the  privations  that  such  a  life  would 
entail ;  my  early  education  has  un- 
fitted me  for  it." 

"  But  it  is  not  too  late  to  counteract 
the  enervating  effects  of  your  post  life," 
returned  Claude.  "I  was  once  a  lux- 
urious idler;  for  more  than  twenty 
years  I  lived  a  life  of  ease  and  refine- 
nient,  and  it  has  taken  me  a  long  time 
to  kill  the  yearning  for  it  again.  For 
five  years  I  have  been  trying  to  harden 
and  strengthen  my  character  by  contact 
with  the  rudest  creations  of  God.  I 
have  abjured  the  refinements  of  life 
until  I  am  fitted  to  enjoy  them  without 
abusing  them.  By  and  by  I  may  go 
back  to  them,  but  it  will  be  with  a 
different  estimate  of  humanity  and  a 
deeper  knowledge  of  myself." 
Raymond  arose,  and  looking  at  his 


'  1 11 


ii 


89 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


watch,  wild,  "It  is  high  noon.  I  did 
not  think  we  had  been  here  so  long. 
I  have  opened  my  heart  to  you  as  a 
Bchool-boy  does  to  his  mother.  You 
have  won  my  confidence  by  some  power 
known  only  to  yourself,  and  taken 
possession  of  my  affections  by  storm. 
I  must  know  more  of  you  ;  you  are  an 
interesting  study  which  I  must  pursue 
more  extensively  ;  therefore  I  shall  re- 
main here  for  a  while.  Perhaps  1  may 
be  able  to  dig  an  epic  out  of  the  stones 
of  Camac  and  the  Morbihan,  or,  better 
still,  a  romance  from  the  Venus  of 
Quinipily." 

"I  am  delighted,"  replied  Claude, 
with  a  warm  smile,  "that  you  have 
decided  so  quickly,  and  so  agreeably  to 
myself.  Now  allow  me  to  offer  you 
the  poor  hospitality  of  my  old  chateau, 
which  perhaps  is  not  worse  than  La 
Croix  Verte." 

"  Thanks,"  returned  Raymond,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand,  "wo  will  speak  of 
that  when  Sir  Edward  leaves,  which  he 
assured  me  this  morning  would  be  verj' 
Boon.  Now  I  must  return  to  him,  for 
he  proposed  a  visit  of  thanks  to  you, 
after  I  had  come  hero  to  pay  the  boat- 
man the  value  of  his  ruined  craft,  and 
he  will  fume  like  a  boiling  kettle  if  1 
keep  him  waiting.  Shall  we  find  you 
at  the  ch&teau  a  little  later  1 " 

Claude  assured  him  that  he  should 
be  there,  and  should  be  honored  and 
happy  to  receive  them.  Then  with  a 
warm  aw  revoir  they  parted. 


PART  SEVENTH. 

J  YOU   MUST   NOT   SEE  HIM   AGAIN. 

When  Celeste  and  Elizabeth  reached 
their  room  in  the  convent  of  St.  Gildas, 
after  the  terrible  scene  on  the  beach, 
both  were  exhausted  from  the  excite- 
ment, and  both  were  disinclined  to  talk 
because  of  the  various  emotions  that 
filled  each  heart. 

Celeste  had  thrown  herself  on  the 
bed,  its  canopy  of  heavy  curtains  mak- 
ing a  deep  shadow,  into  which  she  crept 
that  her  companion  might  not  see  she 
was  weeping  silently  with  her  hands 
pressed  over  her  face. 


Elizabeth  had  pulled  one  of  the  stiff, 
unconifortal)le  chairs  up  to  the  fireplace, 
where  smouldered  a  few  bits  of  wood, 
and  sat  with  her  feet  on  the  fender,  look- 
ing steadily  into   the  dull   ashes  and 
smoke.     It  was  anything  but  a  cheerful 
place.     The  wind  wailed  down  the  chun- 
ncy,  like  the  cries  of  restless,  siiflcring 
spirits.   Perhaps  the  uncomfortable  souls 
of  the  sinful  old  monks  who   tried  to 
poison     the    unhappy    Al61ard     were 
abroad  that  night  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind  and  the  darkness.     The  rickety 
doors  rattled  dismally,  and   the  loose 
windows    clattered    as    though    gaunt 
hands  of  invisible  forms  were  striving 
in  vain  to  undo  the   heavy  fastenings. 
Celeste  sighed  from  time  to  time,  and 
looked  wistfully  toward  Elizabeth.   Tho 
noble  English  face  was  grave,  resolute, 
and  full  of  care,  as  it  turned  furtively, 
at  intervals,  toward  the  canopied  bed, 
from  whence  proceeded  the  sighs  that 
were  almost  sobs.     At  length  she  leaned 
forward   and,   taking   up  the   bellows, 
gave  two  or  three  strong,  decisive  pufl's 
which  sent  up  a  cloud   of  smoke  and 
then  a  bright  flame,  while  she  watched 
it  steadily,  still  holding  the  bellows  in 
her  hand.     She  was  evidently  battling 
with  some  conviction ;  tenderness,  pity, 
determination,   and   sorrow   all   passed 
over  her  face  in  quick  succession.     She 
laid  the  bellows  down  suddcnl)',  partly 
arose,  and  then  sank  into  her  chair  again, 
glancing  toward  the  bed.     A  moment 
after  a  quick,  sharp  sob  told  her  that 
Celeste  needed  her.     Springing  to  the 
side  of  the  weeper,  she  clasped  her  in 
her  arms,  and  drew  the  fair  head  to  her 
bosom  with  the  almost  savage  clasp  of 
a  mother  who  sees  danger  approaching 
a  beloved  child,  and  would  ward  it  off. 

"  Don't  weep,  darling,  don't,  I  pray ; 
you  are  so  tired  and  nervous  already 
that  any  more  excitement  will  make 
you  jwsitively  ill.  I  know  all  about  it, 
I  have  suffered  it  all  with  you." 

"0  Elizabeth!  must  I  tell  Sir  Ed- 
ward 1 "  sobbed  Celeste,  clinging  to  her 
companion.  "  I  never  thought  to  see 
him  again,  much  less  to  make  such  a 
confession ;  the  fear  and  anguish  of  tho 
moment  wrung  it  from  me.  The  sight 
of  his  suffering  face  brought  back  all 
my  old  love.     0  Elizabeth  !  what  shall 


I  do  1  shall  I  tell  Sir  Edward  and  beg 


nf.iiii[i>il -'■^^wr"TT"^^^''''i  "•■'-'■'-r-'*"-"---'"'"-''^— •^"'^^^'*-'''-'*^^^ 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


89 


18 


1  one  of  tho  stiff, 
ip  to  the  iireplocc, 
cw  bits  of  wood, 
n  the  fonder,  look- 
dull   ashes  and 
ing  but  a  cheerful 
ed  down  the  chnu- 
restless,  siiflering 
ncomfortable  souls 
iks  who   tried  to 
Ali<ilard     wcro 
the  wings  of  the 
CSS.     The  rickety 
and   the  loose 
though    gaunt 
rnis  were  striving 
heavy  fastenings, 
time  to  time,  and 
rd  Elizabeth.   Tho 
IS  grave,  resolute, 
;  turned  furtively, 
the  canopied  bed, 
ed  the  sighs  that 
t  length  she  leaned 
up  the  bellows, 
ong,  decisive  puff's 
ud   of  smoke  and 
tv'hile  she  watched 
ng  the  bellows  in 
evidently  battling 
;  tendcniess,  pity, 
sorrow   all   passed 
k  succession.     She 
n  suddenly,  partly 
nto  her  chair  again, 
bed.     A  moment 
sob  told  her  that 
Springing  to  the 
ihe  clasped  her  in 
he  fair  head  to  her 
ost  savage  clasp  of 
anger  approaching 
Noxxld  ward  it  off. 
ing,  don't,  I  pray ; 
d  nervoiis  already 
tement  will  make 
know  all  about  it, 
with  you." 
i8t  I  tell  Sir  Ed- 
;e,  clinging  to  her 
er  thought  to  see 
B  to  make  such  a 
ind  anguish  of  tho 
n  me.     The  sight 
brought  back  all 
ftbcth  !  what  shall 
'  Edward  and  beg 


him  to  send  me  away  from  him  for- 
ever 1 " 

"  I  have  thought  it  all  over,  darling," 
said  Elizabeth,  with  tho  gravity  of  a 
judge  deciding  a  case  of  the  greatest 
moment,  —  "I  have  tliought  it  all  over, 
and  I  have  decided  that  you  need  not 
toll  papa.  It  can  do  no  good  now,  but 
you  must  promise  mo  one  thing.  Ce- 
leste,—  will  youl" 

"  Yes,  yes,  ihme,  anj'thing  you  wish." 

"  Well,  you  must  promise,  for  papa's 
sake,  tiitit  you  will  not  see  M.  le  Comtu 
do  Clermont  again.  You  could  not 
avoid  this  meeting,  for  you  did  not  fore- 
see it ;  but  you  must  not  meet  him 
again." 

"  You  are  right,  Elizabeth,  I  know  I 
must  not,  although  I  would  give  much 
to  explain  all  to  him.  May  I  write  to 
him  but  once,  dear,  only  once?  Tell 
me  that  I  may,  and  I  shall  bo  happier." 

Elizabeth  thought  a  loHg  time  with 
knitted  brows  and  compressed  lips, 
while  Celeste  still  clung  to  her  caress- 
ingly. At  length  she  said,  "Yes,  I 
think  you  may  write  to  him  once;  he  has 
great  claims  upon  our  gratitude.  It  is 
true  that  you  have  wronged  him  deeply, 
for  he  has  a  noble  soul,  and  you  should 
assure  him  of  your  regret ;  in  short,  as 
you  sa}',  you  should  explain  all  to  him. 
It  may  make  him  happier  and  more  con- 
tented to  give  you  up  forever." 

Celeste  sobbed  anew,  hiding  her  face 
on  Elizabeth's  shoulder,  while  she 
murmured  between  her  sobs,  "  Poor 
Claude !   poor,  unhappy  Claude  ! " 

"  You  must  not  think  too  much  of 
him,  and  too  little  of  your  husband," 
said  Elizabeth,  with  some  severity  in 
her  voice.  "  Remember  you  are  papa's 
wife  now,  and  you  must  not  indulge  in 
sentimental  weeping  for  another." 

"0  Elizabeth  !"  cried  Cdeste,  looking 
up  reproachfully,  "  do  you  think  I  for- 
get my  good  husband  in  my  pity  for 
Claude  1  Am  I  wrong  to  pity  him  1 
Has  he  not  suffered  much  through  me  t" 

"  I  don't  mean  to  be  severe,  darling," 
replied  Elizabeth  in  a  softened  tone, 
"  but  I  wish  to  do  right.  It  is  a  hard 
thing  for  me  to  decide  for  you  in  such  a 
matter  as  this,  I  have  had  so  little  ex- 
perience of  life ;  but  still  my  heart 
speaks  for  you.  I  think  I  am  not  wrong 
in  saying  you  may  write  to  M.  le  Comte 


once,  just  once ;  but  T  am  sure  I  am  right 
in  saying  you  must  not  see  him  again. 
To-morrow  morning  I  shall  ask  papa  to 
take  us  away  directly  from  this  place. 
We  have  several  reasons  for  wishing  to 
leave.  Sea-bathing  does  not  suit  you, 
and  it  is  very  dreary  beside,  and  not 
any  too  comfortable  in  this  old  convent ; 
and  I  am  sure  papa  will  like  to  go,  ho 
is  so  disgusted  with  the  miserable  inn 
and  the  dirty  town.  Shall  I  ask  him 
to  go  after  to-morrow  1 " 

"  If  you  wish,"  replied  Celeste,  still 
weeping  bitterly. 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her  with  profound 
pity.  She  could  read  her  friend's  heart. 
She  knew  her  conscience  said  go,  but 
that  her  inclination  cried  stay.  So  the 
noble  girl  determined  to  save  her  the 
struggle  and  to  decide  for  her.  "  Now, 
darling,"  she  said,  laying  her  back  on 
the  pillow  and  kissing  her  tenderly, 
"  try  to  be  calm.  Pray  to  (Jod,  and  he 
will  give  you  peace  and  rest." 

Cileste  closed  her  eyes,  folded  her 
hands  over  her  throbbing  heart,  and 
tried  earnestly  to  fix  her  thoughts  on 
the  infinite  love  of  Christ  and  the  ten- 
der pity  of  his  mother;  but  late  into 
the  night,  under  the  moaning  of  the 
wind  and  the  sighing  of  the  sea,  Eliza- 
beth heard  suppressed  sobs  that  wrung 
her  heart  and  filled  her  soul  with  sor- 
row. The  next  morning  she  walked 
into  Sarzeau  to  speak  to  her  father, 
while  Celeste  wrote  to  Claude. 

When  Philip  Raymond  reached  La 
Croix  Verte,  after  his  long  conversation 
with  Claude,  Sir  Edward  informed  him 
of  Elizabeth's  visit,  and  of  her  request 
to  leave  St.  Gildas  the  next  day.  "I 
am  glad  Lady  Courtnay  is  tired  of  the 
place,"  said  the  gray-haired  sybarite, 
"for  I  am  heartily  sick  of  this  dirty 
hole,  and  the  greasy  food  has  so  de- 
ranged my  stomach  that  I  shall  never 
recover  from  its  effects." 

Philip  thought  of  Elizabeth,  and  hes- 
itated before  announcing  to  Sir  Edward 
his  intention  of  remaining ;  after  de 
bating  it  interiorly  for  a  moment,  he 
concluded  that  for  the  present  his  case 
was  hopeless,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
be  gained  from  her  society  but  the 
pleasure  of  it,  which  was  as  well  a 
danger  of  too  serious  a  nature  to  be 
indulged  in  without  paying  a  penalty 


w 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


afterward.  So  ho  said,  "I  rcp^et  to 
lose  your  chamiing  society,  Sir  Kdwnrd, 
but  I  have  decided  to  reiuuin  here  for  a 
while  in  order  to  study  geology,  ns  I 
intend  to  write  a  poem  on  the  "  Stones 
of  Camac." 

"  A  sublime  subject,"  replied  Sir  Ed- 
ward, bantcringly,  "and  one  truly 
worthy  your  inventive  brain.  I  h()j)e 
your  digestive  organs  are  stronger  than 
mine,  or  PegasuH,  weighed  down  with 
heavy  bread  and  greasy  soup,  may 
refuse  to  soar." 

"  I  do  not  intend  remaining  to  be 
poisoned  by  the  cuisine  of  La  Croix 
Verte.  I  have  accepted  an  invitation 
from  M.  le  Comte  de  Clermont  to  stay 
with  him  at  his  chateau." 

"0-h!"  said  Sir  Edward,  slowly, 
"  I  understand,  you  have  been  alone  to 
pour  out  your  gratitude.  Well,  you 
are  trulj'  [wlite.  I  believe  I  proposed 
to  accompany  you  when  you  made  that 
visit,  as  I  have  quite  as  much  reason 
to  Ih5  grateful  to  him  as  you  have." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  have  not 
been  to  the  chateau.  I  walked  down 
to  the  shore,  at  your  request,  to  find 
the  fisherman  whose  boat  we  appropri- 
ated for  our  pleasant  experiment  yes- 
terday, and  there  I  found  M.  le  Comte, 
absorbed  in  contemplating  —  what  do 
you  think  1" 

"  The  ruined  boat,  I  suppose." 

"  No  ;  simply  a  band  of  blue  ribbon, 
which  he  concealed  as  quickly  and  con- 
fusedly as  though  he  bad  been  caught 
committing  a  theft." 

"  A  band  of  blue  ribbon  ! "  and  Sir 
Edward  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Ah, 
that  explains  his  eccentricities.  No 
doubt  the  falseness  of  some  fair  one  and 
the  chagrin  of  disappointed  love  have 
turned  him  mad." 

"  I  am  convinced  that  he  has  a 
strange  history  hidden  under  his  calm 
and  imp«netrablo  face ;  some  tragedy, 
some  mystery,  that  I  am  determined  to 
fathom. 

"  Very  well,  you  may  at  your  leisure, 
after  I  am  gone ;  but  for  the  present 
occupy  yourself  with  thoughts  of  grat- 
itude, and  come  with  me  to  his  tumble- 
down ch&tean  to  assist  while  I  make 
my  acknowledgments." 

When  they  entered  the  great  hall  of 
the  chateau,  Sir  Edward  looked  at  Ray- 


mond and  made  a  grimace  of  surprise, 
as  his  eye  fell  on  TrisUin,  surrounded 
with  his  beggarly  little  flock,  and  said, 
in  English,  following  Nanette  up  the 
dingy  stairs,  "  This  is  truly  an  interest- 
ing place,  a  sort  of  enchanted  castle,  with 
yonder  old  mummy  for  a  gate-keeper, 
and  this  gnome  with  his  horrid  little 
imps  for  retainers.  I  am  Iruly  puz- 
zled with  all  this,  and  thoroughly  an- 
noyed at  being  so  deeply  indebted  to  a 
person  so  surrounded  with  mystery, 
lie  must  bo  mad,  and  I  have  a  partic- 
ular horror  of  mad  people." 

When  they  entered  the  presence  of 
Claude,  he  came  forward  to  meet  them 
with  such  unaffected  pleasure  and  ele- 
gant ease  that  whatever  disagreeable 
impression  Sir  Edward  had  received  at 
his  entrance  disappeared  at  once,  and 
he  felt  nothing  less  than  respect  for  the 
grave,  courteous  manner,  the  unmis- 
takable nobility  of  the  young  man,  who 
put  aside  with  such  gentle  firmness 
the  profuse  thanks  and  acknowledg- 
ments of  his  visitors. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  you  overrate  my 
effort.  I  did  but  a  very  simple  duty, 
and  only  what  either  of  you  would  have 
done  under  tho  some  circumstances, 
and,  beside,  you  might  have  reached 
the  shore  without  my  aid ;  therefore  you 
are  not  certain  that  you  owe  mo  any- 
thing." 

"  We  owe  you  our  lives,"  said  both, 
warmly.  "W^e  were  exhausted,  and 
unable  to  manage  the  boat." 

"I  am  but  an  indifferent  rower  on 
smooth  water,"  observed  Sir  Edward, 
"  as  I  have  practised  but  little  since  my 
Cambridge  days,  which  you  must  per- 
ceive were  a  long  while  ago;  and  taj 
friend  Mr.  Raymond  is  but  a  novice  at 
the  oars.  The  sea  was  as  smooth  as 
glass  when  its  deceitful  face  tempted 
us  to  try  our  skill,  and,  leaving  the 
ladies  on  the  beach  to  await  our  return, 
we  took  possession  of  a  boat  which  was 
fastened  to  a  rock,  and  started  out  with 
the  greatest  confidence.  But  one  can 
never  tell  how  soon  a  tempest  may 
overtake  him." 

"  Nature  has  her  moods  as  well  as 
we,"  said  Raymond.  "We  proved  it 
yesterday,  and  I  would  not  have  be- 
lieved so  light  a  boat  could  have  lived 
so  long  in  such  a  sea." 


naco  of  surpriHO, 
stun,  Burruuudcd 
e  flock,  and  said, 
Nnnetto  np  tho 
truly  an  intcrcBt- 
antcd  castlu,  with 
w  a  gate-kccpcr, 
his  horrid  httle 
am  Iruly  puz- 
thoronghly  an- 
ply  indebted  to  a 
with  mystery, 
have  a  partic- 
oplo." 

tho  presence  of 
rd  to  meet  them 
pleasure  and  ele- 
ever  disagreeable 
had  received  at 
red  at  once,  and 
an  respect  fur  the 
mer,  the  unmis- 
!  young  man,  who 
gentle  firmness 
and    ackuowledg- 

"  you  overrate  my 
irory  simple  duty, 
)f  you  would  have 
le  circumstances, 
ght  have  reached 
lid ;  therefore  you 
you  owe  mo  any- 

lives,"  said  both, 
I  exhausted,  and 
e  boat." 

liflerent  rower  on 
ved  Sir  Edward, 
but  little  since  my 
jh  you  must  per- 
lile  ago;  and  taj 
8  but  a  novice  at 
ras  as  smooth  as 
;ful  face  tempted 
and,  leaving  the 
await  our  return, 
a  boat  which  was 
I  started  out  with 
:e.  But  one  can 
a  tempest   may 

moods  as  well  as 

"We  proved  it 

jld  not  have  be- 

could  have  lived 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


n 


"  Its  lightness  was  its  salvation,"  re- 
turned C'lnudo.  "  If  it  had  been  heavier 
it  would  have  foundered."  And  then 
ho  adroitly  changed  the  conversation 
to  tho  subject  of  the  monuments  he 
had  visited  the  day  before. 

After  an  hour's  interesting  discussion, 
they  arose  to  ttike  leave,  and  then  Sir 
Edward  announced  his  intention  of  de- 
parting tho  next  day. 

Claude  turned  visibly  paler,  and  for 
a  moment  could  scarcely  reply  to  the 
udiuuii  of  his  guests.  But,  making  an 
effort  to  control  his  emotion,  he  re- 
pcatcil  his  invitation  to  Raymond,  and 
wishing  Sir  Edward  bon  voyage,  they 
parted  with  the  most  friendly  feelings. 

The  baronet  and  Philip  had  left  the 
chateau  some  distance  behind  them  be- 
fore either  hazarded  a  remark,  and  then 
both  exclaimed  at  the  same  moment, 
"  Ho  is  a  mystery." 

For  a  long  time  after  his  visitors  left 
him,  Claude  sat  in  deep  thought,  his 
hands  clasped  over  tho  blue  ribbon  that 
lay  upon  his  heart.  He  had  conversed 
calmly,  and  with  apparent  friendship, 
for  more  than  an  hour,  with  the  hus- 
band of  Celeste,  whom  he  had  doubtless 
saved  from  death,  and  whose  professions 
of  gratitude  had  pierced  his  soul.  This 
old  profligate,  old  enough  to  be  her  fa- 
ther, had  won  her  unfairly,  had  taken 
advantage  of  her  helpless,  sorrowful 
position  to  bind  her  to  him,  not  for  her 
love,  but  for  the  paltry  remnant  of  hor 
wealth.  She  had  been  a  poor,  weak 
child,  left  to  the  power  of  a  designing 
and  unscrupulous  guardian,  who  had 
used  her  to  accomplish  his  purpose  of 
self-aggrandizement,  and  then  hod  given 
her  up  to  this  unprincipled  man,  who 
vras  wasting  what  little  tho  rapacious 
greed  of  the  Church  hod  spared  her. 
Was  she  not  still  bound  to  him  by 
overy  holy  right  1  Did  the  deception 
and  falsehood  that  gave  her  to  another 
free  her  from  him  1  She  loved  him  still, 
he  knew  it,  and  he  thanked  God  for  it. 
Then  did  she  not,  in  spite  of  the  laws  of 
man,  belong  to  him  1  Terrible  and  sin- 
ful thoughts,  unworthy  of  him  and  his 
destination,  tortured  him.  He  was  not 
infallible,  he  was  not  beyond  human 
weakness,  and  his  soul  was  like  a  battle- 
field whereon  contend  two  armies  of 
equal  power;  he  struggled  against  his 


ignoble  feelings,  but  he  could  not  over- 
come them.  For  a  little  while  ho  basely 
regretted  that  he  had  performed  u  noble 
act.  He  tried  to  reason  in  this  wuy, 
but  it  was  false  and  dangerous  reason- 
ing. "  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  1  have  inter- 
fered with  Providence.  Perhaps  I  have 
stopped  in  at  tho  moment  when  her  fet- 
ters were  al)out  to  fall,  and  riveted 
them  anew.  Poor,  poor  child,  I  have 
saved  his  worthless  life  to  work  out 
misery  for  her."  He  arose  and  pacod 
the  floor  hurriedly.  Great  drops  of 
sweat  stood  on  his  forehead,  from  which 
protruded  the  knotted  veins,  his  lips 
worked  convulsively,  he  was  iu  an  agony 
of  distress.  He  was  a  murderer  iu  his 
heart.  He  thought  of  this  man  dead. 
Celeste  free,  Celeste  his.  He  worked 
himself  up  to  a  frenzy  of  romorso  and 
desire.  Poor  soul !  Where  was  tho  Di- 
vine strength  that  the  day  before  had 
supported  him,  when  he  stood  on  tho 
stormy  shore  and  looked  unflinchingly 
in  the  face  of  death  1  It  was  gone,  over- 
whelmed, swept  away  by  these  billows 
of  passion.  I  cannot  despise  him, 
neither  can  I  condemn  him,  for  ho 
would  have  been  a  god  if  he  had  never 
felt  tho  weakness  of  humanity ;  and  I 
claim  no  such  exemption  for  him,  nor 
for  any  being  who  lives  and  breathes. 
There  is  much  dross  mixed  with  the 
purest  ore,  and  the  process  of  separation 
is  neither  brief  nor  gentle.  We  may 
fume  and  boil  and  fret  against  the 
white  flame  that  surrounds  us,  but  it 
burns  on  all  the  same  and  accomplishes 
our  puriflcation. 

In  the  midst  of  this  tumult  of  passion, 
Tristan  entered  softly,  and  laid  a  little 
white  violet-scented  note  in  his  hand. 
The  servant's  gentle  eyes  spoke  mutely 
his  pity  and  sympathy  as  he  glided 
away  quietly,  leaving  Claude  looking 
with  dim  eyes  at  this  white  messenger 
of  peace.  He  knew  it  was  Celeste's 
writing,  and  he  felt  as  suddenly  calmed 
as  though  an  angel  from  God  had  spoken 
to  him.  Perhaps  there  did,  through 
these  pitiful  words  poured  out  from  a 
suflering  heart. 

"Dear  Claude,  [she  said,]  Elizabeth 
has  told  mo  that  I  might  write  to  you 
once,  because  she  did  not  think  it  best 
that  I  should  see  you  to  tell  you  how 


! 


92 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


IpTitefiil  I  fim  to  yon  for  saving  my  good 
huHbiiiurH  life,  and  how  I  regret  tho 
wicked  confessiuii  I  made  to  you  yester- 
day in  my  fear  and  surprise.  I  hope 
you  have  forgotten  it,  for  it  will  bo  n 
greater  hIu  for  you  to  rememl)er  it,  than 
it  was  for  me  to  make  it  when  1  wus 
half  insane  from  excitement  and  anxiety. 

"  Thcro  are  many  things  I  must  ex- 
plain to  you,  then  I  am  sure  you  will 
forgive  me  and  pity  me,  and  even  think 
kindly  of  mo  as  you  once  did  in  those 
days  when  wo  were  children  at  Clor 
mont. 

"Since  the  day  Father  Fabion 
showed  you  to  me,  when  you  were  sit- 
ting under  the  laurels,  one  day,  with 
poor  Aint^e,  my  life  has  never  been 
tho  same.  1  believed  that  you  had 
deceived  me,  and  that  you  loved  her, 
but  wished  to  marry  with  me  solely 
for  my  wealth,  or  so  I  was  influenced  to 
think  by  the  representations  of  my  guar- 
dian. Then  followed  the  dreadful  ca- 
lamity of  Aim6e'8  disappearance,  and  tho 
suspicion  of  your  guilt.  It  terrified  me 
and  maddened  me,  and  for  a  time  I  felt 
that  you  were  indeed  culpable.  Tho 
day  I  last  saw  you  in  the  rose-garden  at 
Monthelon  you  inspired  me  with  horror. 
Pardon  me,  dear  Claude,  for  so  painful  a 
confession,  but  it  is  best  to  show  you 
how  my  heart  was  poisoned  against  you. 
I  was  ill,  feeble,  and  almost  insane  from 
grief  and  disappointment,  for  I  loved 
you  so  —  then,  I  mean,  before  all  this 
happened.  But  when  I  became  calmer 
and  stronger,  your  face  haimted  me 
with  its  suffering,  and  I  regretted  that 
I  had  left  you  without  a  word.  O  Claude, 
if  I  could  but  have  seen  you  then,  all 
might  have  been  explained,  and  these 
many  days  of  sorrow  spared  us !  Then, 
just  at  tho  time  when  the  conviction  of 
your  innocence  began  to  dawn  upon  my 
mind,  you  fled  from  Clermont  without  a 
word  of  farewell.  For  many  weeks  I 
hoped,  and  waited  in  vain,  for  some  tid- 
ings of  you,  but  none  came.  When  my 
poor  mother  died,  I  was  indifferent  to 
life,  and  looked  upon  a  convent  as  a 
peaceful  retreat  where  I  might  hide  my 
sorrow  from  the  world.  My  guardian 
urged  me  to  such  a  step,  and  I  complied. 
I  had  no  power  to  resist  his  strong 
will,  nor  any  friend  to  encourage  me, 
until  I  knew  Elizabeth.     It  was  she  who 


supported  mo  in  my  opposition  when 
they  were  determined  that  I  should 
tuke  vows ;  but  for  her  I  should  have 
yielded.  When  she  loft  the  convent  I 
left  with  her,  and  became  the  wife  of  Sir 
Edward.  I  was  so  alone  in  the  world, 
and  so  feared  the  influence  of  the  Arch- 
deacon when  I  should  be  separated  fVom 
Elizabeth,  and  so  dreaded  a  conventual 
life,  that  I  accepted  any  protection  which 
would  insure  me  against  such  a  possi- 
bility. 

"  Afler  I  had  left  the  convent  I  found 
ray  dear  old  Fanchetto  ill,  and  sufl'ering 
from  poverty.  She  died  in  my  arms. 
I  heard  from  her  the  story  of  yonV 
noble  conduct  on  the  night  when  tho 
mob  attacked  Clermont,  and  also  of  tho 
letters  you  had  written  after  you  left. 
0  Claude,  my  beloved  friend  !  if  I  had 
received  those  letters,  all  might  have 
been  so  different,  and  to-day  1  should  not 
be  alone  writing  these  sad  words  with 
a  breaking  heart.  They  never  reached 
me,  the  Archdeacon  prevented  it.  It 
is  to  him  and  my  own  weak,  credulous 
heart  that  I  owe  all  my  sorrow. 

"  Long  before  I  had  learned  all  from 
Fanchetto,  I  felt  that  I  had  been  de- 
ceived, and  that  you  were  innocent, 
and.  her  eclaircissemenis  confirmed  the 
belief.  But  it  was  too  late  then.  I 
was  already  tho  wife  of  another,  and 
we  were  separated  forever.  I  havo 
tried  to  look  upon  it  as  the  will  of  God, 
and  to  accept  my  fate  with  patience 
and  calmness.  I  am  grateful  to  my 
husband.  He  is  good  to  me,  and  he 
saved  mo  from  a  life  I  detested.  I 
adore  Elizabeth  ;  she  is  an  angel  of 
strength  and  consolation.  Do  not  look 
upon  me  as  altogether  miserttble.  I 
am,  perhaps,  happier  than  you  think, 
and  yoii  know  life  at  the  best  is  not 
altogether  satisfactory.  My  greatest 
sorrow,  my  most  bitter  sorrow,  is  the 
memory  of  my  injustice  to  you.  Dear 
Claude,  you  have  a  noble  heart,  you 
will  understand  and  forgive  mc.  I  de- 
sired to  see  you  that  I  might  again' 
implore  you  to  forgive  me  with  my 
own  lips,  and  take  my  last  fai-ewell  of 
you,  but  Elizabeth  convinced  me  that 
it  was  better  not  to  do  so  ;  for  her  sake, 
and  with  the  approval  of  my  own  con- 
science, I  write  you  this  instead  of 
speaking  it.     I  could  not  leave   you 


li-Tiiii^il  nnillfltK 


y  opposition  when 
led  that  I  sliould 
hor  I  should  huvo 
loft  the  convent  I 
3amo  the  wifo  of  Sir 
alone  in  tlio  world, 
flucnco  of  tlj.0  Arch- 
d  bo  scpnriitcd  from 
'cadcd  u  convcntnal 
ny  protection  which 
tainst  such  a  possi- 

the  convent  I  found 
tte  ill,  and  Buffering 

died  in  my  arms. 

the  story  of  yoiiV 
he  night  when  the 
lont,  and  also  of  the 
tten  nftcr  you  left, 
cd  friend  !  if  I  had 
3rs,  all  might  have 
1  to-dny  1  should  not 
cso  sad  words  with 
They  never  reached 
n  prevented  it.  It 
iwn  weak,  credulous 
ill  my  sorrow, 
had  learned  all  from 
hat  I  had  been  de- 
you  were  innocent, 
nents  confirmed  the 
a  too  late  then.  I 
ife  of  another,  and 
i  forever.  I  have 
t  as  the  will  of  God, 
fate  with  patience 
am  grateful  to  my 
x>od  to  me,  and  be 
life  I  detested.  I 
she  is  an  angel  of 
lation.  Do  not  look 
ether  miserttble.  I 
er  than  you  think, 
!  at  the  best  is  not 
tory.  My  greatest 
ittor  sorrow,  is  the 
Btice  to  you.  Dear 
a  noble  heart,  you 
i  forgive  me.  I  de- 
that  I  might  again' 
rgive  me  with  my 
my  last  farewell  of 
convinced  me  that 
do  BO  ;  for  her  sake, 
ml  of  my  own  con- 
)u  this  instead  of 
iild  not  leave   you 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


08 


II 


forever  without  assuring  you  of  my 
deep  gratitude  and  esteem.  Need  I 
Bay  more  to  cxplahi  all  the  emotions 
that  till  my  heart  1  I  hear  from  all 
of  your  uiilile  life,  your  efforts  for  the 
gooil  of  others,  your  devotion  and  self- 
sacrifiue  ;  and  1  am  thankful  that  I  can 
think  of  you  again  as  I  thought  of  you 
in  those  first  days  of  confidence  and 
hope.  Do  not  mourn,  dear  heart,  be- 
cause wu  are  parted  on  earth ;  look 
forwanl  with  mo  to  another  life,  where 
severed  atVoctidna  will  be  reunited,  and 
where  we  shall  sjicak  a  new  language 
of  love  and  gratitude.  We  must  not 
weep  too  much  for  happiness  we  hove 
missed  on  earth,  for  wo  shall  find  it  all 
reserved  for  us  hereafter.  Your  poor 
Celeste,  will)  has  wandered  from  you  for 
a  while,  shall  return  to  you  again,  and 
place  her  shadowy  hand  in  yours  for 
eternity.'  Here,  I  shall  pray  for  you, 
and  hope  for  the  time  when  I  shall 
meet  you  again,  beyond  the  tears  and 
vain  desires  of  life.  Your  name  shall 
be  the  last  tipon  my  lips,  as  I  shall  be 
the  first  to  welcome  you  to  everlasting 
rest.  [Here  the  letter  was  soiled  with 
tears,  and  several  worda  were  carefully 
erased ;  and  then  it  ended  with]  Adieu, 
adieu,  I  shall  never  forget  to  thank  God 
that  I  have  seen  you  again,  and  have 
been  allowed  to  write  you  this.  Adieu, 
dear  Claude,  again  adieu. 

"Ever  your  « Celeste." 

When  Claude  had  read  and  reread 
the  letter,  his  face  drenched  with 
tears,  he  pressed  it  over  and  over  to 
his  lips  on  the  spot  v.here  she  had  left 
the  traces  of  hei  <^'^'.otion,  and  said 
with  a  broken  vo;cf(  "  Poor  darling, 
sweet.  Buffering  angel,  God  knows  how 
freely  I  forgive  thee,  how  tenderly  I 
love  thee,  and  how  faithfully  I  shall 
cherish  thy  memory  until  that  day 
when  thou  sbalt  lay  thy  white  hand  in 
mine  forever  I "  Then  he  folded  it  and 
laid  it  with  the  blue  ribbon  over  his 
heart,  that  now  beat  tranquilly  and 
gratefully,  soothed  by  her  gentle  words 
which  had  come  to  him,  a  message  of 
hope  and  peace. 

The  next  day  Sir  Edward  Courtnay, 
with  his  wife  and  daughter,  left  Sar- 
zeau,  and  Philip  Raymond  came  to  stay 
with  Claude  at  the  ch&teau. 


PART  EIGHTH. 

THE   SECRET   OK  THE  OliD   CABINET. 

The  summer  passed  tranquilly  to 
Claude  and  Philip  Raymond.  The 
warmest  friendship  and  the  moHt  per- 
fect sympathy  existed  between  tlium, 
in  spite  of  their  dissimilar  characters, 
and  they  never  wearied  of  each  other's 
society,  but  spent  most  of  their  days 
together,  examining  and  studying  the 
stones  of  Morbihan  and  Caniac,  hunt- 
ing, rowing,  fishing,  and  exploring  every 
inlet  and  creek  along  the  coast  for 
miles.  Raymond  enjoyed  the  hardy, 
out-door  exercise  with  the  keen  zoMt, 
the  eagerness  and  light-hoartediiess,  of 
a  boy,  declaring  often  to  Claude  that 
ho  had  made  a  new  man  of  him,  and 
that  in  his  society  he  had  forgotten  the 
charms  of  Parisian  life  and  its  enervat- 
ing follies.  It  was  as  Claude  had  pre- 
dicted. The  strong,  ruggetl  scenes,  the 
simplicity,  tnith,  and  freshness  of  his 
daily  occupation,  so  free  from  the  tram* 
mels  and  conventionalities  of  fashionable 
society,  renewed  within  him  something 
of  the  purity,  enthusiasm,  and  confi- 
dence of  his  early  youth.  Ho  wrote 
some  hours  each  day,  and  he  said 
he  wrote  vigorously  and  with  feeling. 
From  the  white-haired .  peasants  and 
fishermen  ho  gathered  much  material 
for  future  work,  —  many  romantic  tales 
of  La  Vendee,  as  stirring  as  they  were 
original ;  stories  of  heroism  and  self- 
immolation,  almost  godlike,  during  the 
horrors  of  the  persecution,  when  the 
valleys  were  strewn  with  the  dead,  and 
the  Loire  ran  red  to  the  sea. 

One  evening  while  they  sat  together 
talking  over  the  events  of  the  day, 
Raymond  said  to  Claude,  "  This  after- 
noon, while  I  was  at  Auray,  I  met  the 
oldest  man  in  the  Department  of  Mor- 
bihan ;  and  he  was  like  a  book  of  ancient 
legends,  which  when  one  has  commenced 
he  is  loath  to  leave  until  he  has.  finished 
it.  In  his  youth  he  was  a  witness  of 
the  terible  scenes  that  took  place  during 
the  reign  of  terror  in  La  Vendue,  —  the 
horrors  of  the  Noyades,  and  the  Repub- 
lican Marriages.  He  told  me  a  story  so 
touching  that  he  wept  while  telling  it, 
and  I  could  scarce  refrain  from  weeping 
with  him.  It  was  this,  as  nearly  as  I 
can  remember.     In  an  old  chateau  on 


■p  I.-    I    wmm 


04 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


tlio  hnnks  of  the  Loire  there  lived  a  fair 
young  ('(iiiiituHH  with  lier  |iruu(l  and 
Bturn  tiithcr,  who  kept  her  in  a  sort 
of  ca])tivity,  guarded  by  aii  ancient 
woman  whime  only  sou  wua  page  to  tlie 
Count.  ThiH  yonth  waH  lowly  horn,  hut 
as  lieautifid  an  any  hero  of  romance,  and 
he  loved  the  noble  lady  ;  and  hIic,  foi'get- 
ting  her  station,  stooped  to  listen  with 
rapture  to  his  ardent  vows.  The  fair 
and  golden  morning  of  their  love  was 
early  overshadowed  hy  the  relentless 
father,  who,  on  discovering  their  amour, 
banished  the  lover  from  his  castle,  ancl 
married  the  maid  to  an  old  marquis. 
The  youth,  disgusted  with  the  cruel 
despotism  of  the  nobility,  against  whom 
ho  swore  eternal  vengeance,  went  to 
Paris  and  threw  himself  into  the  vortex 
of  the  first  Revolution,  then  at  its  birth, 
and  8(X)n  l)ecamo  an  officer  under  Carrier, 
one  of  the  most  atrocious  monsters  of 
the  time,  the  inventor  of  the  Mariar/es 
lifpublicain*,  as  this  outroge  of  every 
human  feeling  was  styled.  During  the 
wholesale  massacre  at  Nantes,  one  morn- 
ing when  the  doors  of  the  Saiorgea  were 
thrown  open  to  deliver  up  their  victims 
to  their  executioners,  there  was  led  forth 
a  noble  lady,  who  walked  like  a  pale 
angel  between  the  demons  who  guarded 
her.  When  the  eyes  of  the  captain  who 
commanded  the  bloody  band  called  the 
Cmnpagnie  de  Marat  fell  upon  the  beau- 
tiful, calm  face,  he  turned  deadly  pale 
and  shuddered,  covering  his  eyes  with 
his  hands.  It  was  the  Vend^an  count- 
ess who  stood  face  to  face  with  the 
lover  who  had  sworn  eternal  constancy 
to  her  in  the  old  chfiteau  on  the  sunny 
banks  of  the  Loire.  'I  do  not  fear 
death,'  she  said  with  a  placid  smile, 
'  I  only  ask  to  die  with  my  father ; 
bind  me  to  him,  and  let  our  bodies  float 
together  out  to  the  sea.' 

" '  No,  no,  the  noble  with  the  peasant,' 
shouted  the  ruffians,  tearing  her  from 
the  trembling  embrace  of  her  father, 
and  dragging  her  toward  a  beastly, 
disensed  creature  whoso  loathsome  form 
filled  her  with  horror.  'Strip  off  the 
silken  cover  from  the  lily  of  Fnmce, 
and  bind  her  to  the  foul  weed,  and  fling 
both  into  the  river  to  poison  the  fishes,' 
cried  a  monster,  seizing  the  mantle  she 
gathered  over  her  fair  bosom,  while  she 
looked  around  iipon  the  crowd  of  faces 


to  BOO  if  there  wore  pity  or  relenting  in 
any.  Suddenly  her  eyes  lighted  up, 
and  a  smile  like  a  sunbeam  flashed  over 
her  face,  for  she  had  mot  the  same 
glance  that  had  once  bent  over  her  in 
passionate  love,  —  a  glance  that  still 
had  |K)wor  to  fill  her  soul  with  bliss. 

"  Itefore  the  brutal  hands  had  lorn  the 
covering  from  her  white  shoulders,  the 
blow  of  a  sabre  laid  the  wictch  dead  at 
her  feet,  and  the  captain  of  the  Com- 
pagnie  de  Marat  clasped  her  in  his  arms, 
and,  rushing  between  the  soldiers  that 
lined  the  river's  bank,  plunged  into  '  Ln 
liaignoire  Nationale,'  and  floated  down 
the  red  tide  heart  to  heart  with  the 
one  ho  had  loved  so  long  and  so 
hopelessly.  Is  not  that  a  subject  for  a 
romance  1  Truly  one  might  envy  such 
a  blissful  death.  After  the  bitter  dis- 
appointment, the  passionate  desire,  the 
weary  waiting  of  such  a  life,  the  horror 
and  anguish  of  such  a  moment,  to  be 
united,  and  united  forever!  To  float 
away  to  eternity  hand  in  hand,  soul  to 
soul  1  Do  you  think  they  feared  death, 
or  suffered  in  dying]" 

"No,"  replied  Claude,  his  eyes  dim  and 
sad  with  tears,  —  "  no,  they  welcomed 
it  gladly,  as  the  open  portal  to  a  long 
peace,  an  everlasting  union.  He  saved 
her  from  outrage  and  degradation,  and 
ho  crowned  his  love  with  his  own 
sacrifice.  Perhaps  that  act  atoned  for 
much,  and  it  may  be  that  in  the  brief 
moment  they  tasted  more  of  happiness 
than  we  ever  drain  from  the  slow  drops 
that  fill  the  diluted  cup  of  earthly  joy." 

"  On  that  subject  I  shall  write  a  story 
which  will  touch  the  heart  and  make 
it  weep,"  said  Philip,  rising;  "now, 
while  I  feel  the  necessary  furor  poeticus, 
I  will  go  to  my  room  and  pour  it  all 
out  in  words  that  bum.  Adieu  until 
to-morrow  morning." 

Some  who  read  this  may  never  have 
seen  Philip  Raymond's  poem ;  but  I 
have,  for  not  many  years  ago,  on  a 
languid  summer  afternoon,  I  sat  alone 
in  the  ch&teau  of  Sarzeau  and  read  it 
with  tears,  in  the  very  chamber  where  it 
was  written. 

When  the  winter  winds  began  to 
rattle  the  casements,  and  blow  cold 
and  piercing  over  the  barren  peninsula 
of  Rhuys,  Raymond  became  uneasy  and 
spoke  of  returning  to  Paris.     Ho  bad 


^r  T—* '  w*v- 


T 


T 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


90 


pity  or  rolenting  in 
eyoH   lighted    up, 

iiibciim  fluHliud  over 
|md   mot   tho   siuiio 

10  bout  over  licr  in 
ginnco   that   Btill 

Hoiil  with  l)Iis8. 
.1  haiidH  hnd  lorn  tho 

liito  HhoiildcrH,  tho 

the  wicteh  dead  at 
laptain  of  tho  Com- 
ipcd  her  in  his  nrniH, 
in  tho  Buldiors  that 
|k,  phnigod  into  '  La 
and  floated  down 

to  heart  with  tho 
Bo  long  and  so 
that  a  subject  for  a 
ne  might  envy  such 
^fter  tho  bitter  dis- 
assionato  desire,  tho 
ich  a  life,  tho  horror 
h  a  moment,  to  bo 

forever!     To  float 

nd  in  hand,  soul  to 

ik  they  feared  death, 
.«» 

udc,  his  eyes  dim  and 
'  no,  they  welcomed 
pen  portal  to  a  long 
ig  union.  He  saved 
nd  degradation,  and 
lovo  with  his  own 
that  act  atoned  for 
be  that  in  the  brief 
d  more  of  happiness 
from  the  slow  drops 
1  cup  of  earthly  joy." 
;  I  shall  writo  a  story 
the  heart  and  make 
hilip,  rising;  "now, 
essary  furor  poeticus, 
}om  and  pour  it  all 
bum.    Adieu  until 

this  may  never  have 
ind's  poem ;  but  I 
ly  years  ago,  on  a 
lenioon,  I  sat  alone 
Sarzeau  and  read  it 
ery  chamber  where  it 

er  winds  began  to 
its,  and  blow  cold 
;he  barren  peninsula 
i  became  uneasy  and 
to  Paris.     Ho  had 


rocoivod  a  letter  ttom  Sir  Kdwunl 
('oiirtnay,  who  had  returned  there  with 
hiH  wile  and  daugtiter,  and  Philip'N 
heart  still  inclinccl  toward  Klizabcth, 
Chuido  (lid  not  op|K)Ho  him,  fur  ho  knew 
tliiit  Nature  announces  her  own  curcH 
aa  well  aH  her  needs,  and  that  a  lunger 
stay  in  the  sulitudo  of  Surzoau  might 
result  in  disgutit  and  mnui,  and  mo 
spoil  all  tlio  good  that  had  been  done. 
For  hituHuir  ho  had  much  to  do  for  the 
winter;  ho  had  already  begun  the  re- 

ftairs  on  the  ch&teau,  and  had  sent  a 
iMt  to  Paris  for  his  books,  and  his 
school  had  so  extended  itself  that  he 
needed  more  assistance  than  Tristan 
could  give  him.  In  tho  town  of  Auray 
he  had  found  a  young  priest  of  no  com- 
mon attainments  and  of  a  pure  unself- 
ish life,  who  scarcely  Buhsistod  on  a 
poverty-stricken  curacy.  Claude's  of- 
fer to  him  of  tho  charge  of  his  library 
and  school,  with  a  very  fair  compensa- 
tion, was  eagerly  accepted,  and  ho  be- 
came a  most  earnest  worker  in  estab- 
lishing an  institution  that  was  to  be  a 
lasting  benefit  to  tho  humble  town  of 
Sarzeau. 

Claude  had  discovered  that  a  mutual 
good  had  arisen  from  tho  companion- 
ship of  Raymond,  who,  fresh  from  the 
active  world,  had  enlightened  and  en- 
larged his  ideas,  which  had  become 
rather  clouded  and  limited  during  his 
seclusion  from  society.  He  was  a  re- 
generator at  heart,  and  therefore  could 
not  long  be  contented  with  a  narrow 
sphere  of  action.  The  needs  of  human- 
ity, both  moral  and  physical,  which 
exist  in  a  great  metropolis,  had  strong- 
ly presented  their  claims  to  his  atten- 
tion, and  awakened  in  his  heart  a  desire 
to  extend  his  labor  and  influence  beyond 
the  narrow  limits  of  the  little  provin- 
cial town.  Sometimes  he  said  to  Philip, 
*'  Moil  ami,  when  I  have  completed  my 
repairs,  established  ray  library  and 
school,  and  find  all  in  perfect  working 
order,  perhaps  I  may  try  if  I  am  strong 
enough  to  bear  the  temptations  and 
luxuries  of  Paris."  So  they  parted  with 
the  pleasant  hope  of  an  early  reunion, — 
Philip  to  return  stronger  and  better  to 
the  fashion  and  folly  he  had  left  for  a 
time,  and  Claude  to  continue  calmly 
and  patiently  the  good  work  he  had 
begun.  , 


Toward  spring  tho  repairs  wore  com- 
pleted, the  books  had  arrived  from 
I'aris,  the  old  hall  was  changed  into 
a  simple  but  substantial  library,  all 
the  rooms  wore  thoroughly  renovated 
and  furiiixhed  in  a  suital)le  nuiimer, 
au<l  a  largo  apartment  on  the  other 
side  of  the  court  had  lieen  fltto<l  up  lui 
a  school  for  children,  while  the  suhulars 
of  a  more  advanced  age  met  in  tho 
library. 

Tristan's  satisfaction  know  no  bounds, 
for  he  looked  upon  tlicrto  great  iuiprove- 
nients  as  the  result  of  his  little  ex- 
periment in  education,  and  \\\nm  his 
miister's  generosity  as  something  suli- 
lime.  "  God  will  reward  him  by  mak- 
ing him  honored  and  happy  before  his 
death,"  he  would  often  say  in  confidence 
to  tho  j'oung  priest,  who  also  admired 
and  reverejiced  M.  le  Comto. 

Claude  had  gained  a  crown  of  lovo 
and  esteem  from  the  honest  hearts  of 
his  poor  8ubje;^l;s,  which  he  valued 
moro  than  the  jewelled  diadem  of  a 
monarch.  It  was  a  reward  of  such 
priceless  worth  that  he  sometimes  for- 
got tho  spear  from  which  ho  had  won 
it,  and  rejoiced  over  the  scars  of  the 
woimds  that  he  had  received  during  his 
combats.  His  victory  over  every  heart 
had  been  complete.  Even  the  Cur6, 
since  ho  had  become  a  frequent  guest 
at  the  chateau,  had  tried  to  appear  in 
a  dress  more  befitting  the  dignity  of 
his  oiiicc,  had  eaten  and  drunk  less  glut- 
tonously in  public,  and  had  given  closer 
attention  to  his  sacred  duties ;  while 
at  La  Croix  Vcrte,  M.  lo  Comto  was 
welcomed  with  the  deference  and  re- 
spect that  a  king  would  havo  received 
had  he  deigned  to  step  over  tho  thresh- 
old, which  was  now  certainly  cleaner 
than  it  was  the  first  time  wo  crossed 
it,  and  the  guests  assembled  there  were 
less  rude  and  boisterous.  Instead  of 
cards  and  dominos  with  their  coffee, 
one  might  see  all  the  popular  journals, 
and  hear  much  earnest,  intelligent  con- 
versation, over  which  M.  Jacquelon  usu- 
ally presided  with  dignity,  still  main- 
taining his  position  as  a  great  scholar. 

During  the  time  of  tho  rehabilitation 
of  the  chateau,  there  occurred  an  event 
which  colored  all  Claude's  after  years,  — 
another  link  in  that  mysterious  chain 
of  oircumstances  which  we  blindly  call 


iW?W;*i'';E;5 


06 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


fiito,  nnotlior  of  thono  iiimplcBt  of  inonna 
which  iVoviduiico  HoniotiiiieMvtiipluyH  to 
work  out  ((MMit  (IvHiKiiii  or  to  rvvoiil 
profound  HvorutH.  SVhilo  ronovatiii); 
Honiu  of  the  tiinc-ii\jurud  funiitiiro,  thv 
thoiit(ht  ocfiirri'd  to  him  tiiut  Honio  rc- 
piiirH  wcro  neccNmiry  on  the  ohl  cuhinct 
wiiich  wu  huvo  l)i<U)ru  rufurred  to.  Ilu 
Inid  cniployt'd  n  provinciiil  urtittt,  whoHV 
itkiU  liu  riitiicr  doiihtod,  luid  onu  Any, 
whilo  wutching  hiH  hiinKlinK  nttcmptH 
to  rupliico  Huuto  of  tlio  tiny  pioceH  of 
tho  turHJii  on  u  punul,  it  sutidunly  flnw 
ojMin  luul  rovoalud  a  small  iiportiiro 
which  contained  a  packu({0  of  yellow, 
duHly  piipors.  C.'luiido  took  thom  fVoni 
thoir  colli  culcd  nicho  with  a  Htrango 
focling  of  iiwo  and  huHitancy.  Hu  was 
sure  thoy  contained  somo  Hccrot  that  it 
was  better  for  him  to  loam  alone,  ho 
ho  waited  until  tho  man  had  finished 
hia  work  and  departed  ;  then  ho  sat 
down  in  the  gathering  twilight,  and,  op- 
pressed with  a  nameless  fear,  untied  tho 
faded  ribbon  that  confined  the  pack- 
age. Tho  two  most  important  papers 
were  folded  together  and  surrounded 
with  a  Killed  bund,  which  he  broke  with 
trembling  fingers,  for  it  seemed  like 
touching  tho  decayed  bones  of  his  an- 
cestors. The  first  he  opened  and  read. 
It  was  a  ccrtificato  of  tho  civil  marriage 
between  M.  Claude  Louis  Linn^s  Vivien 
Valentin  Conito  do  Clermont  and  Geue- 
vidve  Marie  Gautier,  in  the  presence  of 
the  officier  de  retat  civil  of  the  town  of 
Ch&teauroux,  capital  of  the  D^partc- 
mcntde  I'lndro.  It  was  dated  May  14, 
18 — ,  and  witnessed  by  Pierre  Creton 
and  Andr^  R^uaud,  and  bore  the  seal 
of  the  state.  The  second  was  a  certifi- 
cate of  tho  religious  marriage,  performed 
in  tho  church  of  St.  Etieuno  of  Bourg 
Dieu,  by  the  Cure,  Joseph  Clisson.  This 
bore  tho  same  date  and  the  names  of 
the  same  witnesses.  He  read  them  both 
over  twice  before  he  could  fully  under- 
stand them,  and  then  he  saw  that  they 
were  the  indisputable  proofs  of  the  mar- 
riage of  his  father  with  some  other 
woman  than  his  mother,  for  she  was 
Countess  Catherine  de  Clameran,  solo 
survivor  of  an  old  impoverished  family 
of  Orleans,  and  this  name  was  Gene- 
vieve Marie  Gautier,  who  must  have 
been  a  hourgeoise,  and  the  date  was  six- 
teen years  before  bis  birth,  and  four- 


teen years  lieforo  tho  marriage  (if  his 
mother.  Then  hia  father,  in  his  early 
yearn,  had  married  privately  Home  ob- 
scure girl  whom  ho  had  never  acknowl- 
edged aa  his  wife,  and  who  had  proluibly 
died  without  isHUO.  Ho  breathed  moro 
freely  as  ho  laid  down  the  certificates 
and  t(M)k  up  tho  |)ackngfl  of  letters. 
Thoy  were  in  IiIh  father's  writing,  which 
was  very  jKJCiiliar,  and  ni>t  easy  to  bo 
mistaken  for  another's,  and  dated  from 
Paria,  Baden,  Vichy,  Kms,  and  other 
fauhionablo  aummer  resorts  of  Frniice, 
and  addressed,  aomo  to  ChAteau  Cler- 
n)ont,  others  to  Paris,  and  two  or 
threo  to  ('h&teauroux.  Claudo  read 
them  breathlesslv,  and  learned  from 
their  contents  that  Genevieve  Mario 
Gautier  was  a  beautiful  singer  then  la 
mode  in  tho  fashionable  society  of  Paris. 
She  must  have  been  as  lovely  as  an  an- 
gel, and  aa  virtuous  as  sho  was  lovely, 
if  ono  could  judge  from  tho  impusHionod 
words  inscribed  upon  these  time-stained 
letters.  Ah  !  if  when  we  pen  our  glow- 
ing effusions  we  could  tell  to  what  end 
they  were  destined,  what  strange  oycs 
would  see  them  in  all  their  meaningless 
mockery,  long  after  we  are  dust,  and 
long  after  circumstances  have  proved 
their  insincerity,  mothinks  wo  should 
contract  our  expansiveness,  cool  our  ar- 
dor, and  confine  our  redundancy  to  the 
simple,  emphatic  truth.  When  M.  lo 
Comte  de  Clermont,  in  the  heyday  of 
youth  and  passion,  wrote  those  ardent 
professions  of  adoration,  he  did  not  in- 
tend them  to  be  read  by  his  son  nearly 
fifty  years  afterwaiti.  No,  thoy  wore 
only  penned  for  "the  most  beautiful 
eyes  "  of  sweet  Oeneviive  Gautier,  whoso 
wonderful  voice,  bewitching  grace,  and 
purity  of  heart,  made  her  the  theme  of 
every  tongue  Those  that  bore  the  earli- 
est date  were  tender,  fervent,  and  puro, 
the  outburst  of  a  truthful  heart,  a  deep 
devotion,  and  tbey  must  have  been  writ- 
ten before  M.  le  Comte  became  a  phi- 
losopher and  a  profligate.  It  was  curious 
to  note  the  change,  following  them  fnHn 
date  to  date :  the  first  enthusiastio 
avowal  of  admiration,  the  first  timid 
expressions  of  devotion,  followed  by  the 
first  earnest  and  apparently  truthful 
professions  of  love,  to  which  succeeded 
the  passionate  protestations  of  an  ad- 
oration  strengthened  by  her  virtuous 


mnrrin(^  of  Inn 
thcr,  in  IiIh  curly 
rivuti'ly  wtnio  oh- 
ul  iii'ver  ncknowl- 
wlio  liitd  proluilily 
^o  hreiithol  more 
till)  ccrtiHoiites 

,ckllK«     of    It'tttTH. 

t'h  writinj^,  which 
J  n«>t  cany  to  lio 
and  (Intud  from 
KiiiN,  and  other 
•cHortH  of  Krniicc, 
ti)  C'hAtenu  (,1or- 
ris,  mid  two  or 
Claiido  read 
iid  learned  from 
Oeneviisvo  Mario 
id  singer  then  la 

0  society  of  Paris, 
is  lovely  HH  an  an- 
18  sho  was  lovely, 
[II  the  impitsHionod 
these  time-stained 

1  we  pen  our  glow- 
I  tell  to  what  end 
vhut  strange  eyes 

their  meaningless 
we  are  dust,  and 
noes  have  proved 
)thinkH  wo  should 
;renes8,  cool  our  ar- 
redundancy  to  the 
ith.  When  M.  lo 
in  the  heyday  of 
rroto  those  ardent 
on,  he  did  not  in- 

by  his  son  nearly 
.  No,  they  wore 
he  most  beautiful 
i6ve  Gautier,  whose 
itching  grace,  and 
}  her  the  theme  of 
that  bore  the  earli- 
ferveiit,  and  pure, 
thful  heart,  a  deep 
list  have  been  writ- 
nte  became  a  phi- 
ite.  It  was  curious 
>Ilowingthcm  from 

first  enthusiastic 
[1,  the  first  timid 
)n,  followed  by  the 
)parently  truthful 
)  which  succeeded 
stations  of  an  ad- 

by  her  virtuous 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


07 


refusal  to  reciprocate  nny  but  a  pure 
nflTvution  ;  then  the  proposal  of  a  niur- 
riago  that  should,  fur  various  reasons, 
be  kept  private  for  a  time,  the  raptur- 
ous outburst  of  thanks  iu  reply  to  the 
letter  of  compliance,  and,  after  un  inter- 
val of  more  than  a  year  iu  the  dates, 
another  dated  Paris,  addressed  to  her 
at  Clurmuut,  where  they  had  evidently 
been  living  always  together  during  that 
time,  for  in  this  letter  he  calls  her  his 
wife,  and  declares  ho  cannot  supixirt 
the  separation  from  her,  even  for  a  week  ; 
then  anotlier,  nearly  a  your  later,  ex- 
presses his  joy  at  the  birth  of  a  son, 
and  his  intention  of  hnsteniii;^  to  her 
from  Baden,  where  he  has  boon  passing 
some  months ;  then  another  interval, 
followed  by  cold,  formal  letters,  in  which 
allusion  is  made  to  reproaches  that  an- 
noy, and  chains  that  press  heavily ;  a 
little  later  ho  advises  her  to  return  to 
Ch&teauroux,  and  afterward  adds  to  this 
a  more  cruel  and  determined  order  to 
leave  Clermont  at  once,  refers  to  the 
burning  of  the  oiRco  of  registors  at 
Ch&teauroux,  which  he  says  "  destroys 
the  only  existing  proofs  of  my  rash  and 
ill-timed  marriage,"  and  speaks  of  pla- 
cing the  boy  in  some  institution,  and  of 
allowing  her  a  sufficient  income  to  live 
wherever  she  prefers,  comfortably  ;  then 
another,  and  the  last  of  the  numlier, 
evidently  in  reply  to  a  strong  appeal 
from  her,  cold  and  unscrupulously  wick- 
ed, utterly  refusing  to  acknowledge  her 
or  her  chlkl,  and  commanding  lier,  in 
the  most  unmistakable  terms,  to  leave 
Clermont  without  delay. 

Claude  had  not  read  these  letters  in 
the  order  in  which  we  have  given  a 
brief  outline  of  their  contents.  He  had 
gone  over  them  rapidly  with  burning 
cheeks  and  throbbing  temples,  without 
noticing  their  succession ;  but  when  he 
bad  finished  them  he  understood  all 
that  was  necessary  to  reveal  to  him  his 
father's  true  character,  and  he  suffered 
as  he  never  had  before,  for  his  faith  in 
his  idolized  father  —  his  dead  father 
whose  memory  he  had  reverenced  as 
something  sacred  —  was  utterly  de- 
stroyed, and  his  hitherto  honored 
name  was  denuded  of  all  save  the 
knowledge  of  the  b}ack.  crime  that 
seemed  written  in  indelible  oharactors 
upon  these  time-stained  pages  by  his 
7 


own  hand,  which  had  l)oen  so  long 
(|uiot  in  the  unbroken  rest  of  the  grr  vo. 
He  thought  of  the  sorrowing,  Mutlurinif 
woman  driven  out  with  her  innocent 
child.  The  ruin  of  her  life  seemed  to 
weigh  upon  him  and  crush  him  a« 
though  he  hod  been  a  participator  in 
the  crime  ;  and  with  it  all  cumo  tho 
terrible  question,  "  What  am  I,  if  tliia 
unhappy  woman  still  lives?  and  what 
proof  have  I  that  site  does  not  Y  and 
where  is  the  sou  that  was  Imm  of 
this  union  1  Are  both  motlier  and  child 
dead  ?  O  my  father,  my  father !  what 
an  inheritance  of  sin  and  niisory  you 
iiavo  left  to  mo  I  "  He  examined  again 
and  again  the  papers,  and  the  more  he 
did  so  the  clearer  the  whole  history 
presented  itself  to  his  stricken  heart. 
The  lovely,  virtuous  singer,  tho  ardent 
lover  mad  with  his  passion,  and  deter- 
mined to  possess  her  at  any  cost,  tho 
privato  marriage  in  tho  obscure  town 
far  from  Paris,  the  satiety,  weariness, 
and  indifference,  tho  neglected  wifo 
shut  up  in  tho  chateau  of  Clermont, 
tho  birth  of  a  son  that  renewed  for  & 
little  time  his  affection  for  the  mother  ; 
then  tho  relaping  into  the  former  neg- 
lect and  coldness,  the  evident  chafing 
and  fretting  under  the  fetters  of  a  mia- 
alliance,  and  the  desire  of  freedom  even 
at  the  price  of  truth  and  honor;  tho 
opportune  destruction  of  what  ho  be- 
lieves to  be  all  tho  proofs  of  his  hasty 
marriage,  and  finally,  the  most  dreadful 
of  all,  the  denial  of  his  wife  and  child. 
But  how  came  these  papers,  such  damn- 
ing proofs  of  his  crime,  concealed  in 
this  old  cabinet  in  the  chateau  of  Sar- 
zeau,  so  far  from  the  scene  of  action  1 
A  light  dawned  upon  his  mind  when  he 
rememl)ercd  Nanette  had  told  him  that 
this  piece  of  furniture  had  been  brought 
from  Clermont.  Then,  in  all  probabil- 
ity, the  pallid  hands  of  poor  Genevi^vo 
had  placed  them  there  for  safety. 
Again,  if  sho  had  possessed  these  sure 
proofs,  why  had  she  not  used  them  to 
reinstate  herself  and  child  )  There  was 
some  mystery,  and  the  more  he  thought 
of  it  the  more  complicated  it  became  ; 
yet  ho  pondered  on  it,  determined  to 
solve  it  if  possible.  "  If  this  son  still 
lives,"  he  said  over  and  over  to  himself, 
"  he  is  Count  of  Clermont.  And  if  the 
heart  of  the  unfortunate  Genevieve  did 


—---,:.  -:r  -r-rrM^j-^inivx&^sesmikaegi^mm^mmmm 


J 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


i 


98 

not  break  long  ago  under  the  pressure 
of  lier  woes,  she  is  Countess  of  Cler- 
mont.    I   will   go  to  Cliateauroux.     I 
will  go  at  once,  and  learn  all  I  possibly 
can.     Thero  I  may  be  able  to  solve  tlie 
secret  of  these  letters."     Another  sol- 
emn duty,  another  necessity  for  a  great 
sacrifice,  had  suddenly  thrust  itself  upon 
him.     Ho   understood  all  it   involved, 
yet   he  was  none  the  less  decided  to 
fulfil  it.     It  might  strip  him   of  all; 
it  might  brand  him  with  shame ;  and  it 
would  certainly  place  the  name  of  his 
father   in    obloquy  before    the   world. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  his  duty  to  expose 
Buch   a  crime;    to  give   back  to  the 
wronged  what  they  had  been  robbed  of, 
and  he  was  resolved  not  to  flinch  be- 
fore it. 

When  Tristan  entered  to  announce 
dinner,  he  found  his  master  sitting  with 
pale,  sorrowful  face  over  this  package 
of  letters.  He  looked  up,  and,  smihng 
dimlv,  held  out  one  hand  to  the  hunch- 
back" while  he  laid  the  other  on  the 
papers,  saj-ing,  "  My  dear  boy,  I  have 
found  something  hero  that  may  strip 
me  of  everything,  everything,  even  my 
name  ;  do  you  underatand  how  terrible 
such  a  discovery  is  1 "  „   „  .  , 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!"  was  all  Tristan 
said,  but  his  face  expressed  the  most 
startled  surprise  and  poignant  grief. 

"  To-morrow  I  must  go  to  Chateau- 
roux,  and  you  will  remain  here  until  I 
return.  You  will  always  be  true  to 
me,  Tristan?  no  matter  what  comes, 
you  will  be  faithful  r' 

"0  monsieur!  you  know  I  will. 
My  heart  is  yours  forever;  it  beats 
always  for  you,  and  it  bleeds  because  it 
cannot  bear  a  part  of  your  sorrows  " 


( 


child  was  not  in  the  least  abated.     It 
was  a  dark,  rainy  night  in  March,  and    , 
the  wind  sighed  around  the  house  with 
sad   complainings,  that   awoke   strange 
fancies  in  his  overburdened  heart.     Per- 
haps in  that  very  room  his  father  had 
sat  on  such  a  night  with  the  f^v.i'  Gene- 
vieve, or  perhaps  alone,  thinking  of  her, 
and  wishing  away  the  hours  that  lagged 
between  him   and   his  desires.     From 
the  shadows  of  the  great  canopied  bed, 
the  grim  wardrobe,  the  deeply  recessed 
windows,  he  almost  expected  to  see  a 
graceful  form  steal  forth  and  stand  be- 
fore him,  with  slender  clasped   hands, 
and  eyes  full  of  earnest  entreaty.     The 
name  of  Genevieve  was  stamped  upon 
his  brain  with  Chateauroux,  and  every 
spot  seemed  filled   with  her   invisible 
presence ;  he  felt  as  though  no  other 
character  had  any  important  place   ni 
the  history   of  the   town.     He   forgot 
that  others  whose   names  were  known 
to  the  world  had  figured  there,  that  it 
was  the  birthplace  of  the  good  General 
Bertrand,  and  that  the  old  castle  on  the 
hill  above  the   Indro   was  the  lifelong 
prison  of  the  unfortunate  Princesse  de 
Conde,  niece  of  Richelieu.     He  did  not 
consider  that  the  modest  name  of  Gene- 
vieve Gautier  might  never  have  been 
heard  of  beyond  the  circle  of  her  humble 
family.     And  if  it  had  been  then,  more 
than  forty  years  ago,  now  it  might  have 
been  long  forgotten  and  blotted  out  by 
death  and  the  grave.     Poor  Genevifeve  ! 
what  a  pitiful  reward  for  her  talents  and 
virtue,  what  a  sad  compensation  for  her 
youth,  beauty,  and  honor !     He  despised 
the  memory  of  bis  father,  he  felt   a 
loathing  of  the  life  that  ran  in  his  veins, 
a  life  derived  from  one  so  unworthy. 


""Sod'^^lLCuVeZpa  oX  '''n..u^.GoA  that  the 


tears.  "  With  your  love  to  console  me, 
I  may  yet  give  my  misfortuues  a  noble 
ending." 


^      ,c       PART  NINTH. 

chIteadboux. 

When  Claude  arrived  at  La  Poste, 
the  principal  inn  of  Chkeauroux,  his 
earnest  intention  to  discover  something 
of  the  fateof  Geuevifeve  Gautier  and  her 


and  contempt.     He  was  my  father,  now 
he  is  but  a  handful  of  dust,  too  miser- 
able a  thing  against  which  to  cherish  a 
feeling  of  revenge."    Then  he  remem- 
bered the  son  of  Genevieve ;  if  he  was 
living  he  was  the  Count  of  Clermont, 
the  rightful   inheritor  of  the  chateau. 
What  was  he  like,  this  unknown  brother, 
who  had  so  suddenly  brought  to  life  a 
feeling  of  fraternity  within  his  heart  1 
Was  he  a  coarse  boor  brought  up  among 
peasants  and  ignorants,  a  low-bred  clod 
who  would  step  into  his  place  and  thrust 


( 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


99 


east  abated.      It 
t  in  March,  and 
d  the  house  with 
t   awoke   strange 
ened  heart.     Pcr- 
m  his  father  had 
ith  the  fiv.i-  Gene- 
|e,  thinking  of  her, 
hours  that  lagged 
8  desires.     From 
eat  canopied' bed, 
0  deeply  recessed 
xpected  to  see  a 
Irth  and  stand  be- 
er clasped   hands, 
3St  entreaty.     The 
ras  stamped  upon 
iauroux,  and  every 
hith  her   invisible 
though  no  other 
nportant  place   in 
town.     He   forgot 
names  were  known 
urcd  there,  that  it 
f  the  good  General 
ne  old  castle  on  the 
p  was  the  lifelong 
punate  Princesse  de 
^elieu.     He  did  not 
idest  name  of  Gcne- 
b   never  have  been 
circle  of  her  humble 
ad  been  then,  more 
,  now  it  might  have 
and  blotted  out  by 
I.     Poor  Genevieve ! 
1  for  her  talents  and 
ompensation  for  her 
lOnor !     He  despised 
i  father,  he   felt   a 
hat  ran  in  his  veins, 
one  SO  unworthy, 
'hank  God  that  the 
liim  from  my  scorn 
was  my  father,  now 
of  dust,  too  miser- 
which  to  cherish  a 
Then   he  remem- 
jneviive ;  if  he  was 
!3ount  of  Clermont, 
;or  of  the  chateau, 
is  unknown  brother, 
ly  brought  to  life  n 
'  within  his  heart? 
r  brought  up  among 
nts,  a  low-bred  clod 
his  place  aud  thrust 


him  from  wealth  to  poverty  1  In  any 
case  ho  was  his  brother,  the  same  blood 
flowed  in  their  veins,  and  ho  hoped  to 
be  equal  to  his  duty  in  affection  as  well 
as  in  right.  "  If  I  can  but  find  him 
possessing  a  good  simple  heart,  uncor- 
rupted  by  the  vices  and  vulgarities  of 
his  associates,  I  will  take  him  by  the 
hand,  educate  him,  and  make  him  wor- 
thy of  the  position  he  will  fill."  These 
M'cro  the  noble  and  tmselfish  intentions 
that  filled  his  generous  soul,  and  he  re* 
pcated  softly  to  himself,  as  he  looked 
into  the  glowing  coals  whose  warmth 
seemed  to  invade  his  heart :  "  My 
brother,  my  brother.  Ah,  it  will  give 
me  another  interest  in  life  !  If  he  has 
but  inherited  the  virtue  and  beauty  of 
his  unhappy  mother,  he  will  indeed  be 
worthy  of  my  love.  I  will  meet  him 
with  an  ardent  desire  to  win  his  afibc- 
tion,  an  honest  determination  to  do  him 
good,  and  I  believe  I  shall  not  fail."  So 
building  up  this  fair  structure  of  imagi- 
nary happiness,  with  pleasant  and  gentle 
intentions,  he  brooded  over  his  fire  un- 
til the  servant  announced  his  dinner, 
which  was  served  in  an  adjoining  room. 

Claude  was  anxious  to  begin  his  in- 
quiries that  night ;  so  after  the  dinner 
was  over  he  summoned  the  landlord  to 
his  room,  expecting  him  to  bo  the  tradi- 
tional old  man  stuffed  with  the  history 
of  every  family  in  the  department ;  but 
instead  there  entered  with  a  flourish  a 
round-faced,  smooth-cheeked  individual 
of  about  twenty-four  years  of  age,  who 
asked,  with  a  .very  modern  affectation 
of  voice  and  manner,  how  he  might  be 
useful  to  M.  le  Comte. 

Claude  looked  a  little  disappointed  at 
the  youthful  appearance  of  his  visitor, 
and  said,  as  he  motioned  him  to  a  chair, 
"My  friend,  I  am  afraid  you  cannot 
give  me  the  information  I  wish.  I  had 
expected  to  see  an  older  person  in  the 
proprietor  of  La  Posto,  one  who  could 
remember  back  some  forty  years." 

"  I  am  sorry,  monsieur,  that  I  am  not 
older,  to  be  of  some  service  to  you.  My 
father  was  very  old,  and  could  have  told 
you  all  about  the  town  and  its  inhab- 
itants, and  every  event  that  occurred 
from  his  childhood,  —  for  he  had  a  re- 
markable memory,  my  poor  father ;  but 
unfortunately  for  you,  monsieur,  he  died 
four  years  ago,  and  I  am  sure  there  ia 


not  another  person  in  the  'Department 
who  knows  so  much  of  the  history  of 
Uh&teauroux  as  he  did." 

"  It  is  not  of  the  history  of  the  town 
that  I  wish  information,  it  is  of  a  very 
humble  person  of  the  name  of  Gene- 
vieve Gauticr,  who,  if  she  still  livew, 
must  be  more  than  sixty  years  of  age. 
Have  you  ever  heard  the  name  1 " 

" Gautier,  Gautier,  0  yes,  monsieur,  it 
is  a  very  common  name  in  the  Depart- 
ment de  rindre,  and  there  are  sevcnd 
families  in  the  town,  but  of  Genevieve 
Gautier  I  have  never  heard." 

"  Ah  ! "  replied  Claude,  with  a  sigh  of 
disappointment  mingled  with  relief.  "I 
am  foolish  to  suppose  that  you  could 
know  anything  of  her,  for  it  is  more 
than  probable  that  she  died  long  before 
you  were  bom." 

"  It  is  likely,  monsieur,  for  Chateau- 
roux  is  not  so  large  that  if  any  one  was 
living  hero  by  the  name  of  Genevifeve, 
which  is  very  uncommon  in  this  part  of 
the  country,  I  should  not  have  heard  it 
some  time,  and  remembered  it.  But, 
monsieur,  to-morrow  morning,  if  you 
wish,  I  will  accompany  you  to  an  old 
woman  by  the  name  of  Gautier,  who 
lives  in  the  Rue  St.  Etiennc ;  she  is  very 
old,  and  she  may  be  able  to  tell  you  all 
you  wish  to  know." 

Claude  thanked  the  landlord  and  dis- 
missed him  ;  then  he  sat  before  his  fire 
and  thought  restlessly  of  all  the  possi- 
bilities and  probabilities  of  his  success 
or  defeat  in  his  undertaking,  and  wished 
anxiously  that  it  was  already  morning. 
At  last  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed, 
and  lay  awake  a  long  time,  still  thinking 
of  Genevieve  Gautier.  And  when  ho 
slept,  overcome  by  weariness,  he  dreamed 
of  Genevieve  Gautier,  — dreamed  that  he 
had  found  her,  but  she  was  still  and 
pale  in  her  coffin,  with  face  and  hands 
of  matchless  beauty ;  that  a  priest 
kneeled  by  her  head,  and  soblicd,  and 
murmured  between  his  sobs,  "  Ora  pro 
nobis,  ora  jyi-o  nobis."  And  while  ho 
looked  at  both,  the  dead  Genevieve  and 
the  kneeling  priest,  the  dead  smiled,  a 
wan,  sweet  smile,  like  moonlight  flicker- 
ing over  a  marble  face ;  and  the  cowl 
falling  away  from  the  one  who  prayed 
revealed  the  haggard  face  of  P6re  Benoit, 
stamped  with  the  fiendish  hate  that  had 
disfigured  it  on  that  night  at  Clermont, 


.»Si<mmn*K^' 


tmn.  II  i-    ii  iiiij    ■  I'i'iiijijfiyB" 


100 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


when  unconsciousness  had  obliterated  it 
from  his  sight. 

It  was  broad  day  when  Claude  awoke 
from  the  nightmare-like  dream,  that 
still  troubled  him  with  its  strange  influ- 
ence; ho  did  not  like  that  the  inscrutable 
P6re  Benoit  should  be  connected  even  in 
a  dream  with  the  gentle  Genevifeve 
Gautier.  It  only  served  to  make  the 
mystery  darker  and  deeper. 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  break- 
fast he  found  the  landlord  ready  to 
accompany  him  to  the  Rue  St.  Etienne. 
Together  they  threaded  the  narrow, 
dirty  streets,  until  they  came  to  one  still 
narrower  and  dirtier  than  the  others, 
lined  on  each  side  with  hucksters'  stalls, 
shops  of  tailors,  shoemakers,  and  chair- 
makers,  who  each  pursued  his  peaceful 
avocation  on  the  side  of  the  street  be- 
fore his  door,  unmolested  by  the  passers 
by.  Before  one  of  the  stalls,  in  the  warm 
sun,  sat  a  wizened  old  woman,  her  dirty 
knitting  in  her  lap,  her  bony  hands 
clutching  a  stick  ornamented  with  tufts 
of  bright-colored  yams,  which  she  occa- 
sionally flourished  over  her  stand  to 
drive  away  the  few  flies  that  dared  to 
alight  upon  her  shrivelled  fruits  and 
vegetables. 

"  This  is  M6re  Gautier,"  said  the  land- 
lord, as  ho  touched  his  hat  and  left 
Claude  to  a  private  conversation  with 
the  old  crone,  whose  bleared  eyes  lighted 
up  and  whose  shrunken  lips  trembled 
in  a  dim  smile  of  welcome  to  what  she 
supposed  to  be  a  customer. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  buy  anything,  my 
good  woman,"  said  Claude  kindly,  as  she 
began  to  point  out  her  choicest  articles, 
—  "  I  do  not  wish  to  buy,  I  only  wish  to 
ask  you  a  few  questions." 

The  old  woman  sunk  back  in  her 
seat  disappointedly,  and  resumed  her 
attack  on  the  foraging  flies  more  vigor- 
ously than  before,  while  her  face  seemed 
to  say  plainly,  "  Questions  never  bring 
me  any  money,  and  I  have  something 
else  to  do  beside  wasting  my  time  in 
answering  them." 

The  would-be  interlocutor  under- 
stood this,  and,  wishing  to  be  successfiil 
in  his  investigation,  he  opened  his 
pocket-book  and  laid  a  ten-franc  piece 
on  the  old  creature's  lap.  It  acted  like 
a  charm,  her  eyes  brightened,  her 
mouth  relaxed,  and,  forgetting  her  con- 


stant torments,  she  dropped  the  wisp, 
and  wiped  off",  with  her  dirty  apron,  a 
three-legged  stool,  which  she  begged 
monsieur  to  take,  while  she  assured 
him,  with  the  utmost  deference,  that 
she  was  entirely  at  his  service. 

Claude  took  the  proflered  seat  and 
drew  it  confidentially  near  th-..  old 
woman,  in  defiance  of  the  battery  of 
eyes  levelled  upon  him  fiom  every 
window  and  door  in  the  street,  while 
he  said  in  a  persuasive  voice,  "  I  wish 
to  learn  something  of  one  of  your 
family,  Gencvitive  Gautier.  You  must 
remember  her,  for  she  was  living  about 
thirty-five  years  ago,  and  she  may  still 
be  alive,  for  aught  I  know  to  the  con- 
trary." 

"  Geneviive  Gautier,  Genevi — fevo 
Gau — tier,"  said  the  old  woman  slow- 
ly, striving  to  fish  up  the  owner  of 
the  name  from  the  profound  depths 
of  her  memory.  "Yes,  monsieur,  I  do 
remember  her,  but  that  unfortunate 
girl  did  not  belong  to  our  family ; 
she  was  in  no  way  connected  with  our 
respectable  family,  monsieur."  At  this 
information  Claude  felt  relieved,  and 
politely  regretted  his  error.  "  She  was 
the  orphan  of  a  fabricant  at  Bourg 
Dieu,  who  had  lofty  ideas,  and  gave 
her  music  and  dancing-masters,  and 
educated  her  beyond  her  condition, 
which  was  her  ruin,  monsieur ;  and,  be- 
side, she  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  have 
a  pretty  face  and  a  fine  voice.  Well, 
she  went  to  Paris,  —  you  know  Paris  is  a 
long  way  off",  and  a  very  wicked  town  ; 
there  she  became  a  singer  in  a  theatre, 
or  some  other  trap  of  Satan,  and  that 
was  the  end  of  her."  And  M6re  Gautier 
closed  her  lips  and  folded  her  hands 
as  if  she  wished  to  dismiss  the  subject. 

"  And  is  that  all  you  know  of  her  1 " 
inquired  Claude,  sharply;  for  he  was 
disappointed  at  the  old  woman's  terse- 
ness, and  not  any  too  well  pleased  at 
her  evident  conteff^.,  of  the  person 
under  discussion. 

"  I  have  told  you  all  a  decent  woman 
should  tell," — Claude  did  not  know  that 
a  spasm  of  virtue  was  the  reason  for 
her  reticence,  —  "  but  as  you  seem  to 
have  some  motive  other  than  curiosity, 
monsieur,  I  may  as  well  add  what  you 
ought  to  know  would  be  the  result  of 
such   folly.     In   a  few  years  the   girl 


» 


Topped  the  wisp, 
r  dirty  apron,  a 
lich  she  begged 
lilo  she  assured 
deference,  that 
I  service, 
offered  seat  and 
near  th-..  old 
the  batteiy  of 
lim  from  every 
the  street,  while 
^e  voice,  "  I  wish 
of  one  of  your 
itier.  You  must 
was  living  about 
ind  she  may  still 
know  to  the  con- 

er,     Genevi — 6ve 

aid   woman  slow- 

ip  the  owner  of 

profound   depths 

!s,  monsieur,  I  do 

that  unfortunate 

to    our    family ; 

tnnected  with  our 

msieur."    At  this 

elt   relieved,   and 

error.     "  She  was 

hricant  at   Bourg 

'  ideas,   and  gave 

cing-masters,  and 

d  her    condition, 

lonsieur ;  and,  bc- 

rtunate  as  to  have 

fine  voice.     Well, 

ou  know  Paris  is  a 

ery  wicked  town ; 

inger  in  a  theatre, 

'  Satan,  and  that 

^nd  Mire  Gautier 

folded  her  hands 

miss  the  subject. 

lU  know  of  her  1 " 

•ply ;  for  he  was 

Id  woman's  terse- 

}  well  pleased  at 

!,  of   the   person 

1  a  decent  woman 
did  not  know  that 
LS  the  reason  for 
as  you  seem  to 
sr  than  curiositv, 
ell  add  what  you 
be  the  result  of 
r  years  the  girl 


llmT'"! 


ii4ji.ji_ni..i  i4ii  I 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


101 


came  back  sick  and  poor,  with  a  child 
which  she  said  was  the  son  of  a  count 
to  whom  she  had  been  privately  mar- 
ried, both  before  the  offider  civil  of 
Ch&teauroux  and  in  the  church  of  St. 
Etienne,  Bourg  Dieu ;  but  no  one  could 
over  find  any  record  of  such  a  marriage, 
or  any  priest  who  performed  it,  so  no 
one  believed  her.  Although  it  is  true 
that  the  bureau  de  Vofficier  civil  was 
burned  to  the  ground  with  all  the 
records.  I  remember  it  well,  for  the  of- 
ficier  was  a  good  customer,  and  ho  lost 
his  life  trying  to  save  his  books.  No 
one  believed  her,  monsieur,  because  she 
should  have  had  the  copies  of  the 
records  of  her  marriage,  but  they  could 
not  be  found ;  so  she  lived  here  awhile 
half  crazed  and  stupid,  and  then  she 
disappeared  and  never  came  back  again. 
Afterwards  I  remember  hearing  that 
she  had  died  somewhere  in  Normandy, 
but  I  cannot  remember  how  long  after." 

"  And  her  son  1 "  said  Claude,  with  a 
trembling  heart. 

"0  monsieur,  I  can't  tell  anything 
about  the  boy,  whether  he  lived  or 
died.  In  fact,  it  has  been  so  many 
years  since  I  heard  her  name,  that  I 
had  almost  forgotten  that  such  a  person 
ever  lived." 

"  You  do  not  remember  the  name 
of  the  town  where  she  died  ] " 

"  I  never  knew,  monsieur." 

"  Do  you  know  of  any  one  else  in  the 
town  who  could  give  me  any  further 
information  1 " 

"  No,  monsieur,  I  believe  there  is  no 
one  in  the  whole  Department  who 
knows  anything  more.  My  husband 
came  from  Bourg  Dieu,  that  fs  how  I 
heard  of  Genevifive  Gautier;  and  he, 
God  rest  his  soul,  has  been  dead  twenty- 
five  years." 

"Then  you  can  tell  me  nothing 
more  ] " 

"  Nothing  more,  monsieur,"  she  re- 
plied, with  a  decision  that  seemed  to 
say,  I  have  given  you  full  ten  francs' 
worth  of  information,  and  I  have  no 
more  time  to  waste. 

At  this  moment  a  dirty,  bare-armed 
woman  came  up,  evidently  to  haggle 
for  a  bunch  of  wilted  celery,  but  in 
reality  to  see  if  she  could  discover  what 
was  the  business  of  the  handsome  yoimg 
stranger  with  M6re   Gautier.       So  as 


Claude  had  nothing  more  to  learn,  he 
touched  his  hat  and  walked  away. 

"  A  very  elegant  customer,"  said  the 
new-comer,  looking  curiously  after  the 
young  man.     "  Did  he  buy  much  1 " 

"The  value  of  this,"  chuckled  the 
old  crone,  thrusting  the  ten-franc  piece 
under  the  nose  of  her  customer. 

"  Eh  bien  1  if  you  have  done  so  well 
this  morning,  you  can  afford  me  this 
bunch  of  celery  for  a  half-sou  less," 
returned  the  woman,  as  she  walked  off 
with  the  vegetable  in  question,  after 
having  thrown  two  sous  and  a  half  into 
Mire  Gautier's  tin  cash-box. 

Claude  walked  toward  the  church  of 
St.  Etienne,  Bourg  Dieu,  disappointed 
and  somewhat  disheartened,  for  he  hod 
hoped  for  more  precise  information  from 
Mire  Gautier  than  he  had  received. 
First,  he  wished  for  some  proof  that 
the  poor  Genevidve  had  died  before  his 
mother's  marriage ;  and  secondly,  wheth- 
er the  son  were  living  or  dead ;  and  he 
had  obtained  neither.  Still  he  did  not 
despair,  for  he  hoped  to  discover  some- 
thing from  the  church  records  that 
would  throw  a  little  more  light  on  the 
clouded  fate  of  the  unfortunate  Gene- 
viive  and  her  child.  It  was  some  time 
before  he  could  learn  where  the  Cur^ 
lived,  and  then  it  was  some  time  before 
ho  could  get  his  company  to  the  church, 
for  he  was  at  his  noonday  meal,  and 
was  loath  to  be  disturbed.  However, 
when  at  last  he  appeared,  Claude  found 
him  to  be  a  gentlemanly  person,  with 
an  intelligent  face  and  kind  manner, 
so  he  was  not  disposed  to  regret  having 
waited  patiently. 

"  I  hope  monsieur  will  be  able  to 
find  the  information  he  desires,"  he  said, 
as  he  unlocked  the  door  of  the  sacristy, 
whet'e  the  books  were  kept. 

"  I  hope  the  same,"  replied  Claude, 
calmly,  although  his  heart  was  ill  at 
ease.  "To  begin,  can  you  tell  me 
whether  a  former  Cur£,  one  Pire  Joseph 
Clisson,  is  still  living  1  He  was  Cur4  of 
St.,Etienne  in  the  year  18 — ." 

"Joseph  Clisson,"  repeated  the  priest, 
taking  some  heavy  books  from  a  closet 
as  he  spoke.  "  I  will  tell  you  directly, 
monsieur,  whether  he  was  removed  or 
whether  he  died.  In  18 — ,  you  sayl 
Here  is  the  letter  C ;  Clisson ;  Clisson, 
Jean ;  Clisson,  Pierre ;  Clisson,  Joseph. 


\ 
I 

I 


iiiai,  '■!  M.iiij  I'll" 


w 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


Ah,  poor  man  !  why  did  I  not  remember 
at  once  when  you  spoke  of  himl 
Although  it  was  so  very  long  ago,  one 
ought  never  to  forget  his  melancholy 
frtte.  In  18—,  one  year  after  your 
date,  monsieur,  he  went  to  the  Sandwich 
Islands  as  a  missionary ;  and  there  ho 
was  killed  by  the  natives,  and  eaten. 
Dreadful  as  it  is  to  repeat,  we  have 
every  reason  to  believe  he  was  eaten, 
monsieur." 

Claude  sighed  ;  not  so  much  at  the 
tragic  and  permanent  disposal  of  P6re 
Clisson,  as  at  the  constant  baffling  of 
his  own  hopes,  and  said,  "  How  terrible  ! 
But  do  you  not  know  of  any  one  who 
was  connected  with  him  at  that  time, 
and  who  would  be  acquainted  with 
contemporary  events  1" 

"  0  no,  monsieur,  it  was  so  long  ago 
that  I  know  no  one  of  his  age  who  is 
now  living."  ,     ,      x  lu 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  look  at  the 
record  of  marriages  for  18 —  1 "        ^ 

"Certainly,  certainly,  monsieur,    re- 
plied the  priest,  pleasantly,  as  he  threw 
open  the  door  of  another  closet,  filled 
with  old  books,  having  large  numbers 
on  their  dilapidated  backs.     Taking  a 
step-ladder  he  mounted  to  the  top ;  and 
running  his  finger  along  the  different 
volumes,  he  said,  "  That  would  be  be- 
tween 18—  and  18— ;  ten  years  each, 
you  see,  monsieur ;  ah,  hero  it  is.      And 
he  drew  one  of  the  shattered,  torn  books 
from  the  place  where  it  had  stood  for 
years   undisturbed,  and  reached  it   to 
Claude,  while  he  descended  the  steps. 

"  It  is  in  a  bad  state,  monsieur,  you 
see  the  rats  have  been  at  it,"  said  the 
Curd,  throwing  it  down  on  a  desk.  A 
cloud  of  dust  started  from  it,  mixed 
with  a  stifling  odor  of  decayed  parch- 
ment as  he  opened  the  leaves,  some  of 
which  were  nearly  eaten  up.  "  Whose 
marriage  record  do  you  wish  to  find, 
monsieur]" 

"That    of    one  Genevieve    Gautier, 

May  U,  18—." 

"May  14,    18—.    Yes,  yes,  we  will 
find  it.     I  presume  you  are  a  lawyer, 

monsieur]"  ,.   ,    «,     j 

"No,   I    am  not,"   replied    Claude, 

smiling. 

"  Some  property  in  question,  1  sup- 
pose ;  am  I  not  right  ]  "  i 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  replied  Claude,  sol 


laconically  that  it  checked  the  very 
natural  curiosity  of  the  priest,  who 
turned  quickly  the  musty,  torn  pages. 

"Here  it  is,  18—,  May  Ist,  May  2d, 
May  3d,  and  so  on  until  May  13th 
finished  the  page;  and  as  the  priest 
turned  it,  Claude  saw  that  the  next 
loaf  had  been  torn  off,  or  gnawed  off  at 

the  top.  ^     ,     .  . 

"  Rats,  rats,"  exclaimed  thoCuri  with 
an  expression  of  disgust ;  "  they  devour 
everything." 

"Yes,"  said  Claude,  looking  disap- 
pointedly at  the  mutilated  page  ;  "  they 
have  eaten  the  certificate  I  wished  to 
see  ;  here  is  nothing  left  but  the  names 
of  the  witnesses." 

"How  remarkable!"  and  the  priest 
put  on  his  glasses  and  examined  care- 
fully the  fragment  that  bore  the  badly 
written  signatures  of  Pierre  Crcton 
and  Andr6  Rdnaud,  —  "  how  remarkable 
that  the  names  of  the  witnesses  should 
remain,  while  what  they  witnessed  to 
has  entirely  disappeared." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  useless  to  ask  you  if 
you  know  of  any  persons  bearing  these 

names]"  . 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  monsieur,  that 
I  never  heard  of  them  before,"  replied 
the  Cur6,  shutting  the  register  and 
returning  it  to  its  place.  "  I  have  only 
been  patteur  of  St.  Etienne  for  a  few 
yeai-s,  and  I  came  here  from  another 
part  of  the  country." 

Claude  saw  that  there  was  nothing 
further  to  l)e  learned;  that  neither  the 
name  of  his  father  nor  the  name  of  Gen- 
evieve  Gautier  was  to  be  found  upon 
the  records  of  St.  fitienne,  Bourg  Dieu. 
Whetheu  the  certificate  of  their  union 
had  been  eaten,  as  well  as  the  unfortu- 
nate priest  who  united  them,  he  could 
not  say  ;  he  only  knew  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  page  was  gone,  and  that 
part  had  been  the  original  register  of 
which  he  had  the  copy.    So,  reluctantly 
and  with  a  heavy  heart,  he  thanked  the 
Cur*  for  his  courtesy,  and  bidding  him 
and  the   church  of  St.  Etienne  adieu, 
returned  to   La  Poste  but  very  little 
wiser  than  when  he  left  it. 

The  next  morning  he  left  Chateauroux 
disappointed,  but  still  determined  to 
continue  his  investigation ;  for  he  could 
not  enjoy  his  inheritance  in  peace,  whUe 
he  thought  there  was  a  possibility  that 


'   , 


'mf*r^i¥it'lttmiilifii4miiA0^im,^*ti^^ 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


103 


peeked  the  very 
the  priest,  who 
laty,  torn  pages. 
May  Ist,  Slay  2d, 
until  May  13th 
{ind  as  the  priest 
v  that  the  next 
or  gnawed  off  at 

limed  thoCur^  with 
list ;  "  they  devour 

[de,  looking  disap- 

■lated  page  ;  "  they 

ificate  I  wished  to 

left  but  the  names 

! "  and  the  priest 
md  examined  care- 
hat  bore  the  badly 

of  Pierre  Crcton 
—  "  how  remarkable 
he  witnesses  slioiild 

they  witnessed  to 
ired." 

iselcss  to  ask  you  if 
rsons  bearing  these 

say,  monsieur,  that 
leni  before,"  replied 
[  the  register  and 
ilace.  "  I  have  only 
^tienne  for  a  few 
here  from  another 

there  was  nothing 
id ;  that  neither  the 
or  the  name  of  Gen- 
I  to  be  found  upon 
Itienne,  Bourg  Dieu. 
icate  of  tlieir  union' 
well  as  the  iinfortu- 
ited  them,  he  could 
lew  that  the  greater 
vas  gone,  and  that 
original  register  of 
py.  So,  reluctantly 
iart,  he  thanked  the 
y,  and  bidding  him 

St.  £ttenno  adieu, 
sto  but  very  little 
left  it. 

he  left  Chateauroux 
itill  dcteriniued  to 
ration ;  for  he  could 
ance  in  peace,  while 
ta  a  possibility  that 


the  rightful  heir  still  lived.  The  name 
and  fate  of  Genevieve  Gautier  was  so 
impressed  upon  liis  mind,  that  nothing 
could  cHiice  it.  She  seemed  to  possess 
him  with  an  invisible  presence ;  to  urge 
him  constantly  to  the  fulfilment  of  this 
new  duty,  which  ho  understood  fully  to 
bo  the  most  sacred,  the  most  imperative, 
of  his  life.  His  heart  was  so  noble,  so 
unselfish,  that  he  did  not  suffer  at  the 
thought  of  losing  wealth  and  title  ;  he 
rather  desired  to  find  a  more  worthy 


inheritor  for  the  estate  of  Clermont, 
which  had  long  been,  virtually,  without 
an  owner,  for  he  had  from  the  first  mo- 
ment of  his  departure  solemnly  sworn  to 
himself  that  he  would  never  return  to 
the  people  who  had  placed  him  under  the 
obloquy  of  such  a  terrible  crime  until 
his  innocence  was  acknowledged.  And 
he  had  also  decided  never  to  marry ; 
therefore  he  felt  it  to  bo  a  double  duty 
to  resign  Clermont,  if  the  other  heir 
were  still  living. 


BOOK  FOUETH. 


HOTEL   DE  VENTADOUR. 


PART  FIRST. 
"la  belle  dame  sans  hercl" 

Those  who  are  seeking  for  the  resi- 
dences of  the  old  French  aristocracy 
will  find  the  Hotel  de  Ventadour,  in  the 
Rue  St.  Dominique,  Faubourg  St.  Ger- 
main, Paris.  It  is  a  massive  structure, 
built  of  large  blocks  of  smoothly  cut 
stone ;  the  fa9ade  ornamented  with 
fluted  columns,  and  elaborately  carved 
cornice  and  architrave.  The  windows 
of  the  rezde-chaussee  are  heavily  grated, 
and  the  ponderous  oak  doors  are  beauti- 
fully carved,  and  ornamented  with  bronze 
handles,  bearing  the  devices  and  arms 
of  the  family,  which  boasts  of  being  one 
of  the  oldest  and  most  patrician  in  the 
Empire.  This  imposing  door  opens  into 
a  smoothly  paved  court  with  a  fountain 
in  the  centre.  Four  statues  represent- 
ing the  seasons  fill  the  four  comers  of 
the  quadrangle,  and  four  antique  urns 
stand  between  them,  crowned  with 
flowering  shrubs.  A  broad  flight  of 
marble  stairs  with  deep  niches,  each 
containing  fine  statuary,  conducts  to 
the  premier  etage ;  there  a  servant  in 
a  blue  livery  faced  with  white  admits 
one  into  a  large,  square  antechamber, 
with  a  floor  of  different  colored  marbles, 
and  a  lofhy  frescoed  ceiling.  The  walls 
are  covered  with  historical  pictures, 
each  representing  some  battle  in  which 


a  Marquis  de  Ventadour  lost  his  life  for 
his  country ;  and  if  it  be  in  winter,  a 
bright  fire  bums  in  a  huge  chimney  of 
Flanders  tile,  while  a  number  of  ser- 
vants lounge  on  the  carved  chairs  ttiat 
are  ranged  around  the  walls.  This 
room  opens  into  another  still  longer, 
the  floor  of  light-colored,  highly  polished 
wood,  over  the  centre  of  which  is  laid  a 
strip  of  Persian  carpet.  The  frescoed 
ceiling  is  of  a  more  delicate  color  and 
design  than  the  first,  and  the  walls 
are  covered  with  mirrors  and  pictures. 
Great  Sevres  vases  stand  on  ebony 
brackets;  and  antique  marble  consoles 
support,  one  the  bust  of  Marie  An- 
toinette, the  other  that  of  Louis  XVI. 
The  furniture  of  carved  ebony  is  cov- 
ered with  crimson  embossed  velvet, 
and  curtains  of  the  same  rich  material 
hang  over  the  windows  and  doors. 
Within  is  another  room  equal  in  size 
and  furnishing,  only  that  the  color  of 
the  tapestry  is  blue,  and  the  floor  is 
covered  with  a  Gobelins  carpet.  Be- 
yond, again,  is  another  magnificent  and 
brilliant  apartment,  resplendent  with 
scarlet  and  gold  ;  the  walls  and  ceiling 
are  scarlet,  picked  out  with  gold.  The 
furniture  is  scarlet,  with  heavily  gilded 
frames ;  the  doors  and  windows  are 
hung  with  scarlet,  lined  with  gold.  The 
oniamenta,  tables,  and  chandeliers  are 
of  the  French  Renaissance,  gold,  and 


1p 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


glitter  with  an  effect  of  color  truly 
dazzling,   a   richness    almost    barbaric. 
Hero  is  a  closed  door.     We  have  passed 
through  the  entire  reception  suite,  and 
have  now  reached  the  private  apartments 
of  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Ventadour. 
It  is  true,  the  door  is  closed  against  in- 
trusion, but  we  have  a  carte  d'admUsion, 
and  may  be  allowed  to  enter.   This  is  the 
boudoir  of  Madame  la  Marquise,  and  it  is 
a  gem  of  perfection.     Entering  from  the 
splendor  of  the  scarlet  room,  it  strikes 
one  with  its  pure,  cool  color.     The  walls 
are  padded  with  white  silk  knotted  with 
pale  green  floss ;  the  ceiling  is  painted 
to  represent  a  mass  of  delicate  clouds 
studded  with  silver  stars ;  while  at  the 
four  comers  four  cherubs  hold  up  gar- 
lands of   pale  roses   and   lilies.     The 
furniture  is  white,  enamelled,  touched 
with    dull   gold,   and   tapestried  with 
pale  rose-tinted   silk,  while   clouds  of 
lace,  over  the  same  delicate  color,  cover 
the  windows  and  doors;   ond  the  car- 
pet  is  of  white  velvet,  overlaid  with 
wreaths  of  lilies  and  roses.     There  are 
no  mirrors,  no  pictures,  no  dainty  or- 
naments.    A  Venetian  glass  chandelier 
depends  from  the  ceiling,  and  a  carved 
alabaster  table  beneath  it  supports  a 
frosted  silver  urn  filled  with  roses  and 
lilies.     In  a  deep,  arched  niche,  lined 
with  rose-colored  silk,  stands  an  exquis- 
ite group  of  Niobe,  queen  of  Thebes, 
clasping  her  only  surviving  child  in  her 
arms,  her  woful  face  turned  upward, 
and  the  tears   frozen    on    her    stony 
cheeks.    The  room  is  perfect  in  detail 
and  tone ;  delicate,  pure,  calm ;  a  fit 
temple  for    the    goddess    who    reigns 
here  supreme,  the  fascinating,  dazzling. 
Gabrielle  Marquise  de  Ventadour.    Now 
that    we    have    poorly  described    the 
frame,  let  us  try  to  do  more  justice  to 
the  tableau  vivant  it  surrounds. 

It  is  long  after  midday,  but  to  Ma- 
dame Itt  Marquise  it  is  morning,  and  she 
receives  in  her  boudoir,  wrapped  in  a 
rose-colored  velvet  peignoir  lined  with 
white  satin  and  trimmed  with  swan's- 
down  ;  it  is  open  low  at  the  neck,  dis- 
playing a  chemisette  of  the  most  deli- 
cate lace,  which  only  half  conceals  the 
round  throat,  that  rivals  in  whiteness 
the  large  pearls  which  surround  it 
Her  perfect  arms  and  small  hands 
covered  with  gems  are  partially  veiled 


with  the  same  flimsy  web,  which  falls 
below  her  robe  of  velvet,  almost  cover- 
ing the  satin-shod  feet  that  rest  upon  a 
rose-colored  cushion.     Her  face   is  of 
remarkable  beauty,  but  more  remark- 
able still  is  the  abundant  and  glossy 
hair,    which,    carelessly    knotted    and 
pinned  back  with  a  heavy  gold  nrrow, 
falls  below  her  waist  in  waves  of  silvery 
whiteness.     It  is  not  the  whiteness  of 
age,  for  Madame  la  Marquise  is  very 
young.     Certainly  not  more  than  twen- 
ty-six years  have  passed  over  her  lovely 
brow,  which  is  as  smooth  and  fair  as  an 
infant's.     The  romantic  say  it  turned 
suddenly   white   during   some   terrible 
tragedy.     The    practical     say    it    was 
bleached   by  Monsieur  Antin,  Rue  de 
Richelieu  ;  but  as  I  never  repeat  gossip, 
I  decline  to  say  anything  about  it.     I 
only  know   that   on  the  first  occasion 
when  I  was  introduced  into  the  pres- 
ence of  Madame  la  Marquise,  her  hair 
was  as  white  as  it  is  now.     This  morn- 
ing she  looks  a  little  languid  and  pen- 
sive as  she  half  reclines  on  her  luxurious 
sofa,  one  white  arm  resting  on  a  rose- 
colored  cushion,  the  other  buried  in  the 
folds  of  her  robe.     The  fair  hand,  alone 
visible,  holds  negligently  a  small  book 
of  prayers,  bound  in  white  vellum  and 
gold.     The  world  says  that  Madame  la 
Marquise  is  a  most  bewitching  hypocrite, 
that  she  plays  the  farce  of  piety  to 
perfection  ;  dances  and  flirts  ad  libitum, 
and  fasts  and  prays  at  discretion,  re- 
ceives   the    most  notorious    roues    of 
Paris,  frequents  the  most  brilliant  and 
Bohemian  resorts,  intrigues  and  gam- 
bles all   night,  and  goes  at  dawa  to 
mass.    Sometimes  she    flashes  like  a 
meteor  on  the  horizon  of  society,  fas- 
cinating, dazzling,  enchanting  all  with 
her  radiant  charms ;  at  others,  retiring, 
grave,  simple,  and  serious  as  a  devotee, 
she  absents  herself  from  the  scenes  that 
court  her,  and  weeps  and  prays  alone 
in  her  little  oratory.     How  much  of 


this  is  true  I  cannot  say;  but  one 
thing  I  do  know.  Let  the  world  watch, 
surmise,  and  pronounce  what  it  may,  it 
cannot  lay  its  cruel  finger  upon  one 
black  spot  in  the  character  of  Gabrielle 
Marquise  de  Ventadour.  She  may  be 
reckless,  inconsistent,  and  eccentric; 
she  may  be  vain,  passionate,  and  cruel ; 
but  there  is  one  gem,  the  gem  of  her 


t    . 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


105 


web,  which  falls 
'et,  almost  cover- 
that  rest  upon  a 
Her  face  is  of 
lut  more  remark- 
idaut  and  glossy 
ily    knotted    and 
leavy  gold  irrow, 
In  waves  of  silvery 
the  whiteness  of 
Marquise  is  very 
more  than  twen- 
over  her  lovely 
oth  and  fair  as  an 
Itic  say  it  turned 
iig  some   terrible 
ical     say    it    was 
ir  Antin,  Rue  do 
ever  repeat  gossip, 
hiug  about  it.     I 
the  first  occasion 
;ed  into  the  pres- 
^larquisc,  her  hair 
now.     This  mom- 
languid  and  pen- 
is on  her  luxurious 
resting  on  a  rose- 
ther  buried  in  the 
le  fair  hand,  alone 
ntly  a  small  book 
white  vellum  and 
8  that  Madame  la 
vitching  hypocrite, 
farce  of  piety  to 
id  flirts  ad  libitum, 
at  discretion,  re- 
toriona    roues    of 
most  brilliant  and 
trigues  and  gam- 
goes  at  dawn  to 
le    flashes  like  a 
)n  of  society,  fas- 
chanting  all  with 
Eit  others,  retiring, 
ious  as  a  devotee, 
>m  the  scenes  that 
1  and  prays  alone 
How  much  of 
ot  say;    but   one 
t  the  world  watch, 
ce  what  it  may,  it 
finger  upon  one 
acter  of  Uabrielle 
lur.     She  may  be 
,    and    eccentric ; 
ionate,  and  cruel ; 
1,  the  gem  of  her 


soul,  which  she  keeps  pure  from  flaw 
and  stain.  The  beau  monde  of  Paris 
call  her  "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci," 
for  she  plays  with  hearts  as  a  child 
plays  with  toys:  they  are  thrown  at 
her  feet,  and  the  most  of  them  arc 
worthless,  so  she  tosses  them  about  like 
bubbles  while  they  amuse  her,  and 
tramples  upon  them  when  she  is  weary 
of  them. 

This  morning,  as  I  have  said,  she  re- 
clines upon  her  sofa,  and  holds  a  book 
of  prayers  in  her  hand,  but  she  is  not 
studying  it,  because  she  is  listening  to  a 
young  man  who  sits  beside  her  on  a  low 
tabouret,  reading  aloud  a  manuscript 
poem.  Ho  is  Philip  Raymond,  and 
several  years  have  passed  since  ho  first 
parted  with  Claude  de  Clermont  at  Sar- 
zeau.  In  appearance  he  has  changed 
much,  he  has  grown  stronger  and  hand- 
somer. A  Raphaelesquo  face,  with  pen- 
sive bkiu  eyes  and  blond  hair,  must 
always  bo  interesting,  even  if  it  be  not 
the  highest  type  of  manly  beauty  j  there- 
fore we  have  no  fault  to  find  with  the 
outward  and  visible  form,  but  much 
with  the  inward  and  spiritual,  for  ho 
has  not  made  the  advances  toward  a 
better  and  nobler  life  that  we  hoped  he 
would  after  Claude's  pure  and  lofty  ex- 
ample and  sincere  counsel.  His  genius 
has  not  diminished  or  weakened,  but  it 
has  rather  increased  and  strengthened. 
He  pours  forth  his  songs  in  tones  that 
touch  all  hearts,  from  the  humblest  to 
the  highest;  his  name  is  a  hoqsehold 
word  throughout  England;  and  while 
many  condemn,  all  acknowledge  that  he 
is  touched  with  the  divine  fire.  In 
Paris  he  is  considered  the  literary  prod- 
igy of  the  time ;  every  circle  opens  its 
arms  to  receive  him,  and  he  enters  all 
with  the  graceful  charm  that  wins  its 
way  straight  to  the  heart  of  both  sexes ; 
women  adore  him,  and  men  almost  wor- 
ship him ;  he  is  amiable,  gentle,  and  gen- 
erous, but  he  is  weak  and  loves  pleasure 
and  flattery,  barely  escaping  a  life  of  en- 
tire debauchery.  Perhaps  the  only  thing 
that  has  saved  him  from  the  depths  is 
the  eflbct  of  his  frequent  visits  to  Sar- 
zeau,  and 'the  example  of  the  noble,  self- 
sacrificing  life  of  Claude,  whom  he  loves 
and  reverences  with  no  common  devo- 
tion, and  the  strong  beautiful  nature  of 
Elizabeth,  who    still   influences   in  a 


measure  his  character,  although  they 
are  only  friends;  for  she  has  declared 
any  other  afi'cction  impossible,  and 
Philip  no  longer  urges  his  suit,  because 
he  is  hopelessly,  helplessly,  entangled  in 
the  chains  of  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci, 
and  she  deludes  him,  and  torments  him 
in  the  same  way  she  does  her  other  vic- 
tims. The  poem  he  is  reading  to  her 
is  of  course  addressed  to  her  fatal  beau- 
ty, and  it  seems  to  weary  her,  for  when 
he  finishes  she  says  without  the  least 
apparent  interest,  "It  is  very  pretty, 
but  so  tame,  and  I  am  surfeited  with 
flattery.  Why  did  you  not  choose  somo 
other  theme  1 " 

"  How  can  I,  when  every  thought  is 
filled  with  you  1 " 

"  Bah  !  that  is  hackneyed." 

"  You  are  my  inspiration ;  without 
thinking  of  you,  I  can  do  nothing." 

"  Feeble  sentimentalities;  think  some- 
times of  God  and  nature." 

"  You  are  the  god  I  worship,  the  na- 
ture I  adore." 

"Impious,  I  scorn  such  worship,  I 
would  rather  have  the  simple  love  of  a 
child." 

"  0  Gabrielle !  is  my  passion,  my 
adoration,  my  life,  my  soul,  nothing  to 
youl" 

"  Nothing.  I  do  not  love  you,  I  have 
told  you  so  once,  and  repeated  it  so 
often  that  it  has  become  like  the  lesson 
we  learn  from  a  hornbook  at  our  moth- 
er's knee.  Have  you  no  new  confidence, 
no  new  hope  to  impart  1  nothing  origi- 
nal to  tell  f  Do  tell  me  something  origi- 
nal, I  am  djing  for  some  new  thoughts, 
for  some  new  emotions." 

"  I  can  only  tell  you  the  same  tale, 
Gabrielle,  and  I  shall  repeat  it  forever, 
and  with  my  last  breath." 

"  0,  how  you  weary  me !  If  you  are 
not  more  amusing,  I  shall  refuse  to  ad- 
mit you  to  a  tite-d-tite." 

"  Moh  Dieu!  Gabrielle,  do  not  pun- 
ish me  so  severely.  I  will  do  anything 
you  wish.  Shall  I  improvise  a  song  on 
your  guitar  Y  Shall  I  declaim  an  epio 
poem  1  Shall  I  recite  some  of  the  trage- 
dies of  the  first  Revolution  1  Shall  I 
give  you  some  gossip  from  Galignani, 
Punch,  or  Bell's  Life?  Shall  I  dance 
the  tarantella,  salterello,  or  cachuchat 
Shall  I  perform  some  tricks  of  legerde- 
main, or  contort  my  graceful  body  into 


'H'tmw.n.mu.- 


lOG 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


a  writhing  g^'mnastl  Tell  mo,  prny  tell 
luo,  wlmt  I  blmll  do  to  nmiiHO  yoii. 

"  Quel  enfant  I  you  know  I  hate  ab- 
BUi'ditica.  Toll  me  Bomcthiiig  sorious 
and  calm,  somothiiig  of  yuiir  life  at  Sur- 
Konu,  and  of  your  ccceutriu  fricud,  M.  Ic 
Comto  do  Clermont." 

"  Ah,  I  am  jealouH !  But  he  is  in  Paris. 
Shall  I  bring  him,  that  you  may  judge  of 
him  for  yourself  1  Heavens!  are  you 
ill,  UabricUo  1  You  are  whiter  than 
death!" 

"  111  1  no,  you  stupid.  I  om  only 
weary  enough  to  die  with  your  twad- 
dle. In  Paris  1  What  has  induced  him 
to  leave  his  hermitage  and  charity- 
Bchoul,  his  barren  rocks  and  dinner  of 
herbs,  fur  the  follies  and  temptations  of 
this  modern  Gomorrah  1 " 

"  He  has  done  enough  good  there,  by 
completely  renovating  and  purifying 
the  filthiest  little  town  in  Franco,  and 
educating  the  most  ignorant  set  of  peo- 
ple in  all  the  coiuitry ;  now  he  wishes 
for  a  more  extended  field  of  labor,  so  he 
has  come  here  to  ennoble  us  all  by  his 
beautiful  example  of  perfectly  disinter- 
ested charity.  Ah,  ho  has  a  great  un- 
selfish soul !  why  are  there  not  more  like 
himl" 

"  Yes,  why  not  1  yours,  for  example, 
needs  enlarging  and  elevating." 

"  0  Gahriellc !  you  are  severe.  It  is 
not  my  fault  if  I  have  not  a  superior 
nature  such  as  he  has.  Would  you  love 
mo,  if  I  tried  to  be  more  like  himT' 

"  No,  not  in  the  least." 

"  Ah,  what  a  cruel  angel  you  are  ! 
you  torture  me,  and  drive  me  almost  to 
despair.  I  would  attempt  even  impos- 
sibilities, if  I  thought  I  could  win  your 
love." 

"  Do  not,  do  not,  I  pray,  for  if  you 
accomplished  them  it  would  not  be 
your  reward." 

"  What  the  world  says  of  you  is  true. 
You  have  no  heart." 

"  I  have  no  heart  for  the  world,  and 
I  am  right.  What  use  would  the  world 
make  of  my  heart,  if  I  gave  it  into  its 
cruel  keeping  t  It  would  break  it.  Ah ! 
I  know  its  value,  and  I  protect  it  from 
invasion.  I  have  sworn  it  to  one,  it  is 
sacred  to  him,  none  other  shall  ever 
possess  it." 

"To  onel  to  whom?  to  the  memory 
of  your  dead  husband  1    Did  you  love 


your  husband,  Gabriellol  Tell  mo,  did 
you  love  him  1  and  have  you  buried  your 
heart  with  him  in  his  tonibl" 

"  Love  him  I  pas  si  bete  !  why  he  was 
but  a  shadow  when  I  married  him,  —  a 
shadow  trembling  under  the  weight  of 
eighty-four  years.  0  mon  ami,  is  it 
necessary  to  toll  you  why  I  married 
himl  The  world  surmises,  but  it  does 
not  know,  and  I  shall  not  enlighten  it ; 
but  between  you  and  me  there  is  a  sort 
of  friendship,  —  I  do  not  call  it  affec- 
tion ;  I  have  no  affection  for  you,  only  a 
higher  liking  which  makes  me  truthful 
with  you.  Philip,  I  never  lie  to  you ; 
you  are  more  to  my  life  than  any  other 
of  the  men  who  surround  me,  and 
therefore  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  At 
twenty,  I  married  the  Marquis  do  Ycn- 
tadour  solely  for  his  title  and  wealth. 
He  was  in  his  dotage,  and  childless  ;  so 
he  was  entirely  in  my  power,  and  I  took 
advantage  of  his  imbecility,  and  made 
him  confer  his  name  upon  me,  however 
not  before  his  wife  died,  —  O  no,  she 
had  been  dead  nearly  two  months  when 
I  became  Marquise  do  Ventadour.  She 
was  as  old  and  feeble  as  he,  and  had  a 
passion  for  rich  laces.  I  was  a  lace-ma- 
ker. I  came  here  to  repair  her  laces. 
I  won  her  confidenco.  She  saw  I  was 
clever,  and  that  I  understood  my  busi- 
ness ;  so  she  retained  me  in  her  service, 
which  was  not  long,  for  she  died  soon 
after,  and  I  married  her  husband.  And 
now  I  wear  her  old  lace,  the  richest  lace 
in  Paris.  I  think  the  most  of  it  be- 
longed to  Marie  Antoinette;  for  the 
mother  of  La  Marquiso  was  maid  of 
honor  to  the  unfortunate  queen,  and  one 
of  the  first  who  basely  fled  with  fortune 
when  it  turned  its  back  upon  the  fair 
Antrichienne.  Ah!  .you  are  surprised 
and  shocked  at  the  revelation.  Mon 
ami,  you  are  not  superior  to  the  rest  of 
humanity,  for  you  do  not  like  the  truth. 
The  world  cries  out  for  truth,  and  when 
we  give  it  unadulterated,  it  looks  coldly 
over  its  shoulder,  and  says  we  are  mad. 
You  thought  I  was  a  lily  from  the  old 
stock,  sans  tache,  an  offspring  of  the 
purest  pedigree  of  St.  Germain,  and 
you  are  disappointed  that  it  is  not 
so." 

"  No,  I  swear  yon  are  a  diamond,  no 
matter  from  what  mine  you  were  taken, 
and  the  old  lace  of  Marie  Antoinette  is 


^     ^. 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


107 


|no1  Ttll  mo,  did 
'0  you  buried  your 
tomb]" 

bete  /  why  lio  was 
married  him,  —  a 
ler  the  weight  of 
nion   atiii,   is  it 
i»  why   I  married 
nuses,  hut  it  docs 
not  eidightcn  it ; 
no  tiicro  ia  a  sort 
not  call  it  nflbc- 
iou  for  you,  only  a 
lakes  mo  truthful 
never  lie  to  you ; 
ifo  than  any  other 
urround   mo,   and 
ou  the  truth.     At 
e  Marquis  do  Ven- 
title  and  wealth, 
and  childless ;  so 
r  power,  and  I  took 
>ecility,  and  made 
upon  mo,  Iiowever 
died,  —  0  no,  she 
two  months  when 
B  Ventadour.     She 
as  ho,  and  had  a 
I  was  a  lace-ma- 
9  repair  hor  laces. 
)•     Sho  saw  I  was 
iiderstood  my  busi- 
I  me  in  her  service, 
for  she  died  soon 
ier  husband.     And 
tee,  the  richest  lace 
he  most  of  it  bo- 
toinette;    for  the 
uiso  was  maid  of 
late  queen,  and  ono 
y  fled  with  fortune 
Eick  upon  the  fair 
you  are  surprised 
revelation.     Mon 
trior  to  the  rest  of 
not  like  the  truth. 
)r  truth,  and  when 
ted,  it  looks  coldly 
says  we  are  mad. 
lily  from  the  old 
offspring  of  the 
>t.   Germain,  and 
1  that  it  is  not 

we  a  diamond,  no 
e  you  were  talcen, 
u-ie  Antoinette  is 


of  double  value  bocauao  your  lovely 
hands  have  repaired  it." 

"  Thiinks,  thanks,  very  prettily  said. 
I  understand,  my  friend,  tliat  to  you 
I  am  diamond,  but  to  tito  remainder  of 
the  world  I  am  paste;  that  is,  if  the 
world  liad  discernment  enough  to  dis- 
cover tiio  diiforenco  between  the  false 
and  tlio  true.  But  it  has  not,  and  I 
shall  not  enlighten  it.  I  puzzle  it,  1 
bewilder  it.  It  suspects  everything 
and  knows  nothing,  and  yet  accepts  me 
as  its  queen.  Do  I  not  even  rival  the 
matchless  empress  1  Did  she  not  frown 
on  me  last  night  at  the  Tuilorios  be- 
cause the  Emperor  picked  up  my  fan 
which  I  dropped  before  her  on  purpose 
that  sho  might  see  his  devotion  1  And 
have  1  not  all  of  the  ten  ministers  and 
the  hundred  and  fifty  senators  at  my 
beck  and  call,  who  havo  sworn  that  there 
is  no  favor  I  could  ask  for  in  vain  1  And 
yet  —  and  yet,  Philip,  all  this  power, 
the  power  of  beauty  and  wealth,  I  would 
gladly  lay  at  the  foot  of  ono  whoso  love 
can  never  bo  mine." 

"  0  Uabrielle !  you  grieve  me,  you 
hurt  me  with  such  a  confession.  Is  it 
true  then  that  you  hod  a  heart,  a  warm, 
passionate  heart,  and  that  you  havo 
given  it  to  another  1" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Philip,  it  is  true  that 
once  I  had  a  heart,  but  I  have  given  it 
to  another  forever." 

"  0,  you  are  cruel !  you  cannot  mean 
it.     It  cannot  be  forever." 

"  Yes,  mon  ami,  forever  I  I  have  said 
it,  and  it  is  enough;  no  more  ques- 
tions, no  more  answers,  on  that  subject. 
You  have  interested  me,  or  I  have  in- 
terested myself.  Now  tell  me  of  the 
Comte  de  Clermont.  Is  he  hand- 
some t" 

"  Yes,  very.  Ho  is  of  the  noble,  se- 
rious type ;  a  grave  tnan  and  yet  gentle, 
with  a  smile  like  a  child's,  and  eyes  that 
seem  to  look  through  you  and  beyond 
you." 

"  Bring  him  to  me.  I  wish  to  know 
him,  although  I  presume  he  is  a  boor 
and  unacquainted  with  the  refinements 
of  life,  yet  he  will  be  new  and  refresh- 
ing.    Will  you  bring  him  1 " 

"  Yes,  on  one  condition." 

"  Name  your  condition." 

"  That  you  do  not  trifle  with  him  and 
make  him  suffer.     Ho  is  not  a  boor,  he 


is  a  gentleman  of  the  most  refmed  niim- 
Iters,  and  ho  has  a  heart  too  vuUiublo 
for  you  to  breok." 

"  I  trifle  with  him,  and  make  him 
suffer !  O  no,  Philip,  I  shall  iiave  no 
power  over  such  a  noble  soul  !  It  is 
only  the  foolish  and  feeble  who  are 
sultject  to  my  caprices.  I  pledge  you 
my  word  I  will  not  make  him  siitt'er. 
Now  adieu.  Nnnon  is  waiting  to  dress 
me  for  my  drive  in  tho  Bois.  Adieu." 
And  raising  tho  tiilken  curtain  that 
hangs  over  tho  door,  Madame  la  Mar- 
quise disappears,  leaving  Philip  Kaymond 
l>ewildered,  astonished,  and  disappointed, 
but  more  madly  iu  love  than  ever. 


PART  SECOND. 

A  FRIDAY  EVENING    AT  THR   u6tEL  VEN- 
TADOUR. 

It  was  as  Philip  Raymond  had  said, 
Claude  de  Clermont  was  in  Paris,  where 
he  expected  to  have  been  long  before, 
but  many  things  connected  with  his  lifo 
and  employments  at  Sarzeuu  hud  ])ro- 
vented  it.  After  his  unbucccssful  visit 
to  Ch&toauroux  he  had  by  no  means  dis- 
continued his  investigation  concerning 
tho  fate  of  Genevieve  Gautier  and  her 
child,  but  he  had  spent  muoh  time  in 
searching  throughout  tho  different  towns 
of  Normandy  for  more  reliable  informa- 
tion. At  last,  after  much  useless  in- 
quiry and  many  failures,  he  had  learned 
that  a  person  l)earing  that  name  had 
lived,  nearly  thirty-five  years  before,  in 
a  small  town  not  far  from  Itouen,  and 
an  old  woman  who  renioukbcred  her 
spoke  of  her  as  a  poor,  half-crazed  crea- 
ture with  a  little  boy.  After  a  long 
search  the  record  of  the  death  of  Geno- 
vidve  Marie  Gautier  was  found,  the  age 
corresponding  to  that  of  tho  unfortu- 
nate victim  of  his  father's  cruelty.  No 
doubt  now  remained  to  Claude  of  her 
having  died  several  years  before  his 
mother's  marriage.  On  examining  tho 
record  further,  he  also  found  inscribed 
tho  name  of  one  liouis  Gautior,  the  date 
a  little  more  than  a  year  after  that  of 
the  unhappy  Genevieve,  and  tho  age  as 
near  as  possible  coinciding  with  that  of 
her  son.     When  Claude  had  discovered 


iiry  :■  " 


108 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


these  facts  ho  felt  relieved  of  a  burden 
that  had  weighed  heavily  upon  him ;  for 
ho  woB  now  convinced  that  Uenovidvo 
Gautler  and  her  child  had  both  been 
resting  for  years,  in  peace,  in  the  little 
cemetery  of  Mulaunay. 

It  was  less  than  a  week  after  his  ar- 
rival in  Paris,  when  one  evening,  as  ho 
'  sat  writing  in  his  simple  but  comfortable 
room  in  the  Rue  St.  Roch,  Philip  Ray- 
mond entered  abruptly.  He  was  in  the 
most  brilliant  spirits,  and  wore  the  most 
elegant  evening  dress.  "  Ah,  my  friend," 
he  cried,  eagerly  clasping  Claude's  prof- 
fered hand,  "  I  have  an  invitation  for 
you  from  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Ven- 
tadour,  and  I  am  come  to  take  yoti. 
Her  Friday  toiries  are  the  most  brilliant 
in  Paris.  There  you  will  meet  oil  the 
beaux  e»prit»,  politicians,  ministers,  sena- 
tors, writers,  artists,  and  beauties  most 
sought  after  by  the  beau  monde,  beside 
making  the  acquaintance  of  the  Mar- 
quise, who  is  the  most  lovely  woman  in 
the  country." 

"Thanks  for  the  invitation  of  Ma- 
dame la  Marquise,  as  well  as  for  your 
kindness,  my  dear  Philip,  but  I  must 
beg  to  be  excused  from  fashionable  so- 
ciety, I  have  neither  the  time  nor  the 
inclination  for  it." 

"  Yoti  are  most  provoking,"  said  Ray- 
mond, pettishly.  "What!  do  you  think 
to  live  the  life  of  a  hermit  here  1  I 
pray  you  to  give  up  such  ascetic  habits, 
and  become  a  little  more  like  a  sensible 
being.  Paris  is  not  the  place  to  bury 
one's  self;  at  least  make  an  exception 
for  once,  and  come  with  me  this  even- 
ing. You  will  not  regret  it,  for  Madame 
la  Marquise  will  interest  and  fascinate 
you,  as  she  doe  all  the  world." 

"  Bah  !  not  in  the  least.  I  have  no 
intention  of  adding  another  name  to  her 
long  list  of  victims.  The  Circe  has  be- 
witched you,  as  she  has  every  one  else, 
until  you  forget  the  more  serious  duties 
of  your  life  to  dance  attendance  upon 
her  with  the  jeuneste  dorie,  the  dandies 
and  beaux  who  surround  her.  My  dear 
Philip,  you  have  become  her  slave,  and 
your  chains  have  degraded  you  to  the 
same  level  with  the  others.  Where  are 
your  noble  intentions,  your  strong  re- 
solves of  the  pasti  And  your  love  for 
the  noble  Elizabeth,  even  that  is  blotted 
out  by  this  unworthy  passion,  and  you 


forgot  her  in  the  prosonoe  of  that  dan- 
gerous coquette." 

"  0  Claude  I  have  a  little  more  charity 
than  the  pitiless  world.  You  do  not 
know  the  woman  vou  are  condemning," 
replied  Philip,  with  a  crimson  flush. 

"  No,  I  do  not,  it  is  true,  neither  do  I 
wish  to ;  beside,  at  heart  I  am  a  repub- 
lican, and  I  have  no  desire  to  give  my 
hand  to  the  clasp  of  aristocrats,  rouii, 
and  enriched  knaves." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  too  severe.  You  speak 
aa  if  one  should  have  no  pleasure  in 
life." 

"  No,  yon  do  not  understand  me.  I 
do  not  condemn  pure  pleasure.  1  con- 
demn dainty  luxury  and  gilded  vice.  If 
I  engage  in  such  diversions,  what  will 
Wome  of  my  serious  work  1  What 
strength  and  virtue  can  I  draw  from 
such  impure  fountains  1" 

"  You  talk  as  though  it  wcro  a  fright- 
ful crime  to  spend  an  evening  in  the  so- 
ciety of  an  attractive  woman,  and  as 
though,  because  she  has  the   gracious 
gift  to  charm,  she  should  bo  avoided 
like  a  pestilence.     In  the  salons  of  Ma- 
dame la  Marquise  all  meet  together  on  a 
delightful  equality ;  each  one,  retaining 
his  own  opinions,  listens  to  those  of 
others,  and  thereby  loses  his  egotism 
and  despotism,  and  becomes  more  lib- 
eral, less  aggressive,  arid  less  arrogant. 
Is  it  not  true  that  ardent,   talented 
men  of  the  same  noble  intentions,  some- 
times without  ever  having  known,  hate 
each  other,  who,  after  they  have  been 
thrown  together  under  the  refining  and 
conciliating  influence  of  good   society, 
come  to  esteem  and  like  each  other] 
Madame  la  Marquise  has  tlie  gracious 
faculty  of  making  the  most   opposite 
parties  perfectly  at  ease  together,  and 
the  happy  eff'ect  of  her  evenings  is  often 
to   extinguish   political  suspicions  and 
enmities.     She  is  most  liberal  in  her 
views  of   life,   and    charitable   in  her 
judgments,  and  I  venture  to  assert  that, 
in  any  good  work  you  may  choose  to 
undertake,  you  will  find  in  her  a  power- 
ful coadjutor,  for  she  is  as  noble  and 
generous  as  she  is   lovely  and  fasci- 
nating." 

"  O  my  dear  boy  !  you  are  bewitched 
by  the  siren ;  as  far  as  I  can  learn  she 
is  a  most  heartless  coquette,  and  I  am 
sure  her  vanity  would  not  be  at  all  suited 


i._.p<_an,«gii.i!i?.  ^'l!^^'!^gull 


lonoe  of  that  dan- 

littlo  moro  charity 
trld.     Yoti  do  not 

aro  condomiiing," 

orimHon  fliiuh. 
8  true,  ncit)'or  do  I 
cart  I  am  a  rcpub- 
desire  to  give  my 

oriatovrnta,  roult, 

levcro.  You  apeak 
vo  no  pleasure   in 

understand  mo.     I 

0  pleaauro.  1  con- 
and  gilded  vice.  If 
voraions,  what  will 
oua  worki      What 

can  i  draw  from 
inal" 
igh  it  were  a  fright- 

1  evening  in  the  so- 
vo  woman,  and  as 

has  the  gracious 
should  bo  avoided 
a  the  taloiit  of  Ma- 
meet  together  on  a 
each  one,  retaining 
iatens  to  those  of 
'  loses  his  egotism 

becomes  more  lib- 
,  arid  less  arrogant, 
it  ardent,  talented 
)le  intentions,  some- 
having  known,  hate 
tor  they  have  been 
ler  the  refining  and 
10  of  good  society, 
d  like  euch  other] 
e  has  tlio  gracious 
the  most  opposite 
ease  together,  and 
er  evenings  is  often 
leal  suspicions  and 
lost  liberal  in  her 

charitable  in  her 
iture  to  assert  that, 
'ou  may  choose  to 
lind  in  her  a  powcr- 
>e  is  as  noble  and 

lovely  and  fasoi- 

you  are  bewitched 
'  as  I  can  learn  she 
ioquettc,  and  I  am 
I  not  bo  at  all  suited 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


100 


with  my  austerity.  I  fancy  rich  droisoa, 
lacos  and  jewels,  flattery  and  luiiiry, 
aro  tho  subjects  slio  oonsidor*  moat 
worthy  hur  thoughts.  Noble  liberty 
and  manly  equality  have  a  voice  too 
coarse  and  a  hand  too  rough  to  pleaau 
her  dainty  tuatos  ;  therefore,  dear  Ray- 
mond, say  no  more.  I  do  not  wiah  to 
know  this  womait.  I  do  not  wish  my 
serious  life  disturlMjd  by  hur  follies." 

"  From  your  gentle  remarks  one 
would  think  you  hated  women,  and  had 
some  grave  wrongs  to  avenge  on  all  tho 
sex.  It  is  absurd  for  you  to  l)e  angry 
with  them  simply  because  they  liko  luce 
and  jewels  and  aro  beautiful.  My  opin- 
ion is  that  it  is  only  cowurdioo  that 
makes  you  refuse.  You  aro  afraid  to 
meet  the  fire  of  La  Marquiso'a  splendid 
eyes." 

"  Not  at  all ;  splendid  eyes  never  dis- 
turb mo." 

"  Nonsense  I  you  are  too  young  to 
preach.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
that  a  lovely  woman  has  no  power  to 
make  your  heart  throb  foster  1 " 

"  The  most  lovely  creature  living  has 
no  power  to  quicken  tho  pulsation  of 
that  organ,"  returned  Claude,  laughing 
at  Raymond's  expression  of  incredulity. 
Then  he  added,  more  seriously,  "No, 
my  friend,  I  am  sincere,  the  solemn 
duties  of  life,  the  needs  and  sorrows 
of  humanity,  fill  my  existence,  and  I 
have  no  time  to  waste  in  amorous  sigh- 
ing, I  leave  that  to  gay  gallants  like 
you;  the  only  passion  that  fills  my 
heart  is  love  for  my  country." 

"  Bravo  I  how  patriotic  1  I  swear  your 
noble  sentiments  will  find  an  echo  in 
tho  fair  bosom  of  La  Belle  Marquise,  for 
I  have  heard  her  utter  the  same  words 
a  thousand  times.  Come,  my  dear 
Claude,  come  with  me  but  this  once, 
and  I  will  promise  you  solemnly  that, 
after  you  have  spent  one  evening  in  the 
society  of  Qabrielle  de  Ventadour,  and 
are  not  charmed  with  her,  I  will 
irever  again  disturb  your  peace  with  my 
selfish  desires.  I  have  talked  of  you  so 
much  to  her,  that  she  is  already  inter- 
ested in  you,  and  prepared  to  like  you 
immensely.  I  am  dying  of  jealousy,  yet 
still  I  insist  upon  your  going,  because 
I  have  pledged  my  word  to  bring 
you." 

"I  am  sorry,  Philip,"  said  Claude, 


with  some  impatience, — "I  am  aorry you 
should  have  dune  so  without  consulting 
me  first ;  you  know  I  have  the  atrongcat 
aveniion  to  fashionable  society.  How- 
ever, that  you  may  not  bruak  your 
promise  to  tho  fair  tyrant,  I  will  go 
with  you  once,  but  only  for  an  hour, 
for  I  have  much  to  do. 

"  Bravo  1 "  cried  Raymond,  clasping 
his  hauda  with  childiah  doli^'lit.  "  Now 
my  victory  ia  aure.  Make  huato  with 
your  toilet.  Shall  I  call  Tristan  to 
aaaiat  1  The  poor  aoul  waa  alecping  on 
u  Bofa  in  the  anteroom  when  I  entered. 
Claude,  have  you  noticed  how  ho  has 
changed  lately  1  The  boy  is  dying  !  he 
is  so  thin  he  la  ghastly,  and  tliut  cough 
is  tearing  him  to  ahreds." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  too  well,"  replied 
Claude,  sadly,  as  ho  laid  away  his 
papers  and  closed  his  dusk.  "  My 
strongest  reason  for  coming  to  Paris 
was  that  he  might  have  the  benefit 
of  milder  air  and  a  better  physician 
than  Sarzcau  affords.  No,  I  will  not 
disturb  him,  I  will  dress  alone.  Poor 
boy,  it  wrings  my  heart  to  think  that  I 
may  loao  him." 

Before  Claude  had  completed  h'\% 
toilet,  Triatan  entered,  and  his  master's 
eyes  searched  his  thin  face  more  anx- 
iously than  ever.  It  was  true  ho  had 
changed  ft-ightfuUy.  Since  Philip  had 
lost  seen  him  at  Sarzeau,  disease  had 
made  rapid  inroads  upon  his  always 
feeble  constitution  ;  now,  as  he  stood 
languidly  before  Claude,  his  long,  piti- 
ful-looking hands  folded,  and  his  head 
wearily  dropped  on  his  shoulder,  while 
his  eyes,  unnaturally  large  and  bright, 
beamed  with  gentle  pride  and  satisfac- 
tion, his  master's  heart  ached  at  the 
feebleness  of  his  appearance,  and  he 
said,  with  a  voice  as  tender  as  a  moth- 
er's, "  Do  you  feel  a  littlo  better  this 
evening,  Tristan  t " 

"  0  yes,  monsieur,  much  better."  It 
was  always  the  same  answer,  for  be 
never  complained. 

"  Don't  sit  up  for  me,  Tristan,  go  to 
bed  as  soon  as  you  like  after  I  am 
gone,"  returned  Claude,  kindly,  as  he 
tied  the  last  knot  of  his  white  cravat. 
"  Now  do  I  look  sufficiently  well  dressed 
for  fashionable  society  1 " 

"  0  monsieur,  you  are  perfect ! "  re- 
plied Tristan,  with  undisguised  admira- 


r" 


110 


A  CnOWJf  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


you 


■o 


elegant 


tloii.     "  I   never  law 
bclnrc." 

"  I  winh  it  wore  for  a  Wftor  cnww, 
my  Ixiy,"  Hiiid  (IIuikIo,  (Imwiii);  on  liU 
kIovi'h  uh  Iiu  Ic'tl  the  rouni  to  join  Uiiy- 
niond. 

"  Now  vou  pIcANo  ino,  nnd  do  credit 
to  yourrtelf;  you  are  ulc^uit,  entirely 
cli<(,'ant,"  cried  Philip,  lut  lie  wiilked 
aroinid  IiIh  friend,  and  cxatnined  hitt 
drcHH  with  the  utfeuted  airs  of  a  fiiitliion- 
altlu  tailor  itnttin^  the  iiiHt  totichoR  to 
the  fittin)j(  of  a  now  unit.  "  I  lun  mire 
the  heart  of  Miidamo  la  ManpiiHo  will 
Hurrendur  at  the  firat  glance.  Now, 
moH  ami,  you  innst  pnnniHO  mo  not  to 
try  to  win  her  from  mo,  neither  to 
make  her  Huffer  by  yotir  severity.  If 
you  Hco  Hho  iu  really  intoroHted  in  yon, 
retire  (Vom  tho  Held,  and  leave  nio  a 
fair  elianco.  Will  you  prumiNO  mo 
thati" 

"  Yes,  with  all  trnth,  yo<i  need  have 
no  fears,  yon  will  not  find  a  rival  in 
mo.  8ho  may  havo  all  tho  charms,  all 
tho  graces,  and  nil  the  virtues,  yet  she 
can  havo  no  power  to  touch  my  heart ;  I 
am  protected  by  an  invuluorablo  ar- 
mor." 

Philip  laughed  derisively  aa  he  gave 
tho  conchman  the  order  to  drive  to  the 
H6to1  Ventadour,  Hue  St.  Dominique. 

It  was  rather  late  when  they  arrived, 
and  tho  lalona  of  Madame  la  Marquise 
were  crowded  with  a  brilliant  throng. 
She  stood  in  tho  scarlet  room,  nnder 
tho  light  of  the  great  golden  chandelier, 
clothed  in  dazzling  white,  and  blazing 
with  jewels,  receiving  with  tho  grace 
and  dignity  of  a  queen  tho  distin- 
guished guests  who  disputed  for  her 
smilos. 

In  spito  of  tho  calmness  and  stoicism 
of  his  character,  in  spite  of  tho  chilling 
and  hardening  effect  of  hia  years  of 
seclusion,  in  spito  of  tho  armor  which 
ho  boasted  of  wearing,  Claude's  heart 
bounded  and  throbbed  as  it  never  had 
before,  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
remarkable  beauty  of  this  woman ;  his 
head  whirled,  and  his  breath  seemed  to 
come  in  short  gasps,  thousands  of  lights 
danced  before  him,  and  thousands  of 
voices  deafened  him,  as  ho  clasped  Ray- 
mond's arm  tightly  while  ho  led  him 
forward  to  present  him. 

Madame   la  Marquise  do  Ventadour 


received  her  guest  with  tho  most  chiirm- 
ing  grace  and  tweetneHN,  the  long  liiMhes 
swept  tho  fair  cheeks,  and  the  li|)a 
trembling  in  a  halfsmilo  uttered  what 
wuN  unintelligible,  yet  there  was  no 
visible  agitation  save  the  rapid  riso 
and  fall  of  the  clouds  of  lace  nver  her 
boNoni,  and  the  sudden  pallor  thut  was 
swiftly  succeeded  by  a  delicatu  flush. 
Then  she  raised  her  splendid  eyes  and 
looked  Claude  steadily  in  the  face, 
while  she  addressed  him  in  calm,  clear 
tones,  which  he  did  not  seem  to  hear, 
for  ho  made  no  reply,  only  bowing  low 
he  drew  back  and  allowed  some  new- 
comers to  take  his  place. 

"  For  (tod's  sake !  "  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  clasping  Philip's  arm  more  tight- 
ly, "  draw  back  a  little  behind  this 
crowd  until  I  get  breath.  I  am  stifling. 
I  told  you  I  was  not  fit  for  such  a  scene. 
The  very  air  poisons  mo  !  " 

"  Nonsense  1 "  returned  Raymond, 
looking  at  him  with  surprise  ;  "  it  is  tho 
sudden  glare  of  light,  and  tho  confusion 
of  voices.  Why,  you  are  like  an  actor 
touched  with  stage  fright ;  or  perhaps 
*  La  Ik'Uo  Damo  sans  Merci '  has  sent 
an  arrow  straight  to  your  heart." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Philip,  don't 
jest.  I  tell  you  1  have  had  a  shock, 
a  terrible  shock.  I  am  thoroughly  be- 
wildered, leave  me  alone  while  I  recover 
mysolf."  And  sinking  on  to  a  sofa  in  the 
alcove  of  a  window,  ho  buried  hia  face 
in  his  hands  and  shut  out  tho  glare  of 
light  and  the  dazzling  form  of  Gabriello 
do  Ventadour.  A  thousand  emotions 
and  memories  swept  over  his  soul.  It 
seemed  as  though  the  events  of  his 
whole  life  were  concentrated  into  that 
moment,  yet  he  was  not  conscious  of 
any  one  scene  being  clearer  than  an- 
other. All  was  chaos,  bewildored  con- 
fusion, a  murmur  of  indistinguibhablo 
sounds.  A  blaze  of  every  color  min- 
gled in  the  wildest  disorder. 

He  was  aroused  at  last  by  Raymon(L 
who  said  severely,  while  he  laid  his  hana 
on  his  shoulder, "  Come  I  this  will  never 
do.  Don't  make  yourself  ridiculous. 
You  are  attracting  the  attention  of  tho 
whole  company.  Shake  off  your  night- 
mare, and  go  and  speak  to  the  Mar- 
quise, or  leave  the  room." 

Claude  started  up  with  a  pallid  face, 
passing  hia  hand  over  bis  eyes  aa  if  to 


7 


|i  the  moBt  rliiirm- 
iH,  tlio  luii^  IuhIicn 
H,  anil  tliu  lipa 
nilo  titturod  wlint 
ct  tlioro  wntt  no 
|o  tho  riipiil  ritti. 
(if  laio  (ivor  her 
n  pallor  ilmt  vm 
a  (lolicatu  (IiihIi. 
pientliil  even  aiul 
ily  in  tlio  fiico, 
liirn  in  calm,  clear 
tot  Mocrn  to  honr, 
[v,  only  liowiiiff  low 
Unwed  Bonio  now- 
ilaco. 

iio  Bnid,  in  a  low 
)'H  arm  more  ti(;ht- 
llttlo  behind  thin 
ath.  I  amHtifling. 
fit  for  such  a  Hcono. 
mo  !  " 

turned     Raymond, 
Hur))riHO  ;  "  it  itt  tho 
t,  and  tho  confuHion 
)u  are  like  un  actor 
fright ;  or  perhaps 
UH  Merci '  has  sent 
;o  your  heart." 
sake,    Philip,   don't 
have  had  a  shock, 
I  am  thoroughly  bo- 
nlono  while  1  recover 
ng  on  to  a  sofa  in  tho 
,  he  buried  his  face 
lut  out  tho  glare  of 
ing  form  of  Gabriello 
thousand   rmotions 
it  over  his  soul.     It 
\   tho  events  of  his 
ncentrated  into  that 
as  not  conscious  of 
ng  clearer  than  an- 
laos,  bewildered  con- 
of  indistinguiuhable 
of  every  color  min- 
it  disorder, 
at  last  by  Raymoud| 
nrhile  he  laid  his  hanii 
Jome  I  this  will  never 
yourself  ridiculous, 
the  attention  of  tho 
Shake  off  your  night- 
[  speak  to  tho  Mor- 
9  room." 

ip  with  a  pallid  face, 
)ver  his  eyes  as  if  to 


A  CROWN  FIIOM  THE  81'EAR. 


Ill 


clear  his  flight.  "Tt  is  true,  I  am  a 
fool,  a  Mtupid  dolt,  to  Ix)  uvurcoinu  in 
thin  way.  liut  have  patience  with  mo, 
I'lii'  |>,  for  a  moment,  I  have  received 
nwcU  It  shock.  Oive  me  your  arm,  and 
wo  wtll  (.'iko  a  turn  through  the  rooms, 
<rhilo  I  cdinpimo  myself  sufflciuutly  to 
speak  f  '  yonder  duzstling  creature,  then 
anerwai-ifd  I  will  slip  <iuifltly  away.  1 
cannot  remain  Uet\\  it  is  no  pluco  for 
me." 

"('(tme  with  mo  to  tho  lilirnry,  it  is 
cooler  and  qifieter  there,"  said  Ray 
mond.  As  they  left  tho  alcove  to- 
gether, ('liiude  glanced  at  La  Marquise. 
She  Htood  in  the  same  place,  surrounded 
by  tho  same  thmng  of  admirers,  but 
hor  oyi'H  wore  following  him.  On  tho 
thrcitholil   of  tho  library  another  sur- 

Iiriso  awaited  him.  A  tall,  elegant- 
miking  man  in  purple  robes  turned,  as 
tho  two  entered,  fVom  a  group  of  eccle- 
siastics who  surrounded  him,  and  Claude 
saw  before  him  Monseignour  tho  Binhop 
of  Rouen.  It  acted  like  an  electric 
shock  ;  all  tho  confusion  and  feebleness 
of  his  mind  passed  away  like  a  flash 
bofnre  tho  unflinching  gaze  of  tho  man 
who  had  so  wronged  him.  In  that 
inomont  each  face  expressed  more  than 
words  can  describe,  while  without  tho 
least  apparent  recognition  on  cither 
side  they  met,  and  passed  so  near  that 
tho  purple  robes  of  tho  Bishop  brushed 
against  Claude. 

When  Raymond,  with  his  companion, 
returned  to  tho  scarlet  room,  the  num- 
ber of  worshippers  that  surrounded  La 
Marquise  had  not  in  the  least  dimin- 
ished, yet  tho  moment  her  eyes  foil 
upon  them  sho  gracefully  motioned 
both  to  her  side,  while  she  said  to 
Philip,  "  I  am  more  than  grateful  to 
you,  M.  Raymond,  for  your  prompt 
compliance  with  my  wishes."  Then 
sho  turned  to  Claude  with  a  smilo,  half 
grave,  half  happy,  "  I  have  heard  so 
much  good  of  you  from  your  friend,  that 
I  have  long  wished  to  know  you,  M.  le 
Comte." 

"  You  honor  mo,  madam,"  replied 
Claude,  with  a  low  bow,  "  but  I  fear 
you  have  overestimated  my  humble 
eiForts,  if  tho  kind  heart  of  my  friend 
exaggerates  what  littlo  I  have  done  to 
something  worthy  your  notice." 

"  M.  Raymond,  will  you  go  and  talk 


with    Madame  T 1     fiho   is  dying 

for  some  of  yourchanninguotiiplimi'titM.'* 
Philip  looked  reproachfully  at  I<a  Mar- 
quiNo  us  hu  walked  otf  to  do  Iut  bid- 
ding. "  Now,  M.  le  Comte,"  she  said, 
turning  to  Claude  with  a  bright  smile, 
"  I  belicvo  yoti  are  unac(|uaiuted  with 
Parisian  society,  iierhaps  you  will  allow 
me  to  point  out  some  of  its  celebrities  1 " 

"  You  aro  too  kind,"  with  another 
in'ave  bow,  while  his  eyes  seemed  riv- 
eted upon  her  face. 

•'  Do  you  m'o  those  two  men  talking 
with  tho  lady  in  lil'Je  <  The  blond  is 
M,  le  Ministro  du  la  (iiw-rre.,  tho  brun 
is  M.  lo  Miuistre  des  Kinaiice^^,  mid  tho 
lady    is    tho    celebrated   Cuuutc!)S    do 

\l ;  l>oth  aro  in  love  with  her,  and 

sho  is  in  love  with  neither.  Yet  each 
is  ready  to  swear  that  sho  adores  tho 
other ;  while  hor  husband,  who  is  ouo 
of  tho  sonators,  would  like  to  shoot  all 
throe." 

Claudo  did  not  reply  ;  ho  seemed  to 
lie  studying  tJM)  countenance  of  Iji 
Marquiso  curiously.  Again  she  flashed 
another  glance  at  him  ;  both  turned 
visibly  paler ;  then  tho  long  liu<ih<'S 
swopt  hor  cheeks,  and  with  u  sligitlly 
tremulous  voice  she  wont  on  with  her 
remarks.     "  Youdor   small,   dark   man 

is  M.  R ,  one  of  tho  loadors  of  tho 

Republican  |)arty  ;  ho  is  a  strong  spirit, 
an  agitator,  an  extremist,  but  ho  is 
wonderfully  clever." 

"  I  am  well  acquainted  with  him 
through  his  works ;  he  writes  thoso 
spirited  and  truthful  letters  in  the  —  " 

"  Yes,  M.  lo  Comto,  ho  is  very  ad- 
venturous ;  throe  times  he  has  been 
imprisoned  because  of  his  attacks  on 
tho  Imperial  party,  but  as  often  as  ho 
has  been  liberated  ho  has  advanced  his 
opinions  with  tho  same  intrepidity  and 
defiance.  I  like  him ;  ho  is  one  of  my 
heroes.  I  worship  a  strong,  fearless 
soul." 

"  A  noble  woman  always  admires 
courage,  no  matter  in  what  cause."  said 
Claude  at  random,  scarce  knowing 
what  he  said,  so  confused  were  his 
thoughts  in  tho  presence  of  this  remark- 
able woman. 

"  Notice  that  man  who  is  passing ; 
the  short,  thick  man,  with  flat  nose, 
and  block,  close-curling  hair ;   that  is 


.• 


M.  D- 


and  the  tall,  thin  man  with 


fl2^ 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR 


him  is  M.  M ,  his  shadow  he  is  called ; 

he  always  goes  with  M.  D to  assist 

in  gathering  material  for   his  novels. 

It  is  well  known  that  poor  M.  M 

does  all  the  work,  and  that  M.  D 

reaps  the  benefit,  that  is,  the  fame  ,.nd 
the  money." 

"  How  unjust,"  said  Claude,  bitterly, 
"to  take  so  contemptible  an  advantage 
of  the  power  given  to  one  by  success !  " 

"  It  is  true ;  but  there  is  so  little 
justice  in  society !  O  M.  le  Comte, 
here  in  my  own  rooms,  as  well  as  in 
other  brilliant  circles,  I  see  things  that 
make  me  blush  at  the  deceptions  wc 
are  capable  of.  In  my  salons  are  repre- 
sentatives of  all  parties ;  of  the  state, 
the  Church,  and  the  liberal  professions. 
I  encourage  equality,"  —  with  a  little, 
mocking  laugh  and  another  quick  glance 
at  Claude.  "  I  am  as  thoroughly  diplo- 
matic as  a  statesman.  I  have  one  room 
for  the  sheep,  another  for  the  goats,  and 
a  third  for  the  wolves;  yet  they  all 
mix  together ;  they  affect  to  hate  each 
other,  yet  they  mix  without  much  snarl- 
ing. And  I  like  a  sprinkling  of  scarlet 
and  purple,  it  gives  dignity  to  a  recep- 
tion. Yonder,  talking  with  the  Arch 
bishop  of  Paris,  is  the  Bishop  of  Rouen 
He  is  an  ambitious  man,  and  hopes  to 
be  a  cardinal.  Has  he  not  an  imposing 
figure  and  a  face  of  remarkable  intelli- 
gence 1 " 

Claude  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  those 
of  La  Marquise  fixed  upon  him  with 
what  he  thought  to  be  a  strange  expres- 
sion. A  slight  shiver  passed  over  him, 
but  he  said,  calmly,  "  Yes,  madam,  his 
exterior  is  faultless,  let  us  hope  his 
character  is  equally  so." 

"He  is  a  successful  man.  Society 
does  him  homage,  the  Church  looks 
upon  him  as  one  of  her  most  earnest 
and  devoted  teachers,  his  influence  with 
the  government  is  almost  boxindless, 
and  his  opposition  against  republicanism 
is  a  power  in  itself.  I  suppose  the  proof 
of  one's  superiority  is  his  success,  is  it 
not  so?" 

"With  the  world,  yes,  often;  but 
before  a  higher  tribunal  one  may  be 
judged  differently." 

"You  take  a  very  serious  view  of 
life,  M.  le  Comte.  It  has  one  mean- 
ing for  you  and  another  for  us  who 
are    only    pleasure-seekers.      We    are 


ambitious  of  the  most  contemptible 
things  ;  you,  of  the  most  noble.  Here 
is  one  of  our  stars,  our  brightest  stars," 
as  a  young  man  with  pale,  earnest  face, 
and  eyes  full  of  fire,  bowed  low  before 

her  and  passed ;  "he  is  M.  L.  N , 

our  glorious  young  orator.  A.h,  mon 
Dieu  f  how  he  touches  all  hearts  !  Ho 
does  not  fear  to  speak  the  truth,  no 
more  than  does  that  intrepid  contributor 
to  the  Sevue  des  Deux  Mondes.  Did  you 
read  his  last  article  on  Equity  1 " 
Claude  bowed  in  reply. 
"  I  admire  the  nobility  and  truth  of 
his  sentiments,  as  well  as  the  courage 
with  which  he  defends  them.  It  is  to 
be  regretted  that  the  nation  must  be 
deprived  of  such  a  teacher.  I  am  told 
that  already  the  secret  police  are  using 
every  means  to  discover  who  he  is ;  and 
that  the  Jieme  is  threatened  with  sup- 
pression if  it  publishes  any  more  of  his 
articles.  I  hope  the  unfortunate  man 
will  be  warned  in  time  to  save  himself 
from  imprisonment." 

The  sweet,  clear  voice  of  La  Marquise 
was  full  of  anxiety,  and  her  eyes  were 
fixed  earnestly  on  the  face  of  Claude  as 
he  replied,  ♦•  If  he  is  an  apostle  of  the 
truth,  he  must  not  be  silent  from  the 
fear  of  evil  consequences.  —  W^ho  is  that 
fair,  florid  young  man  talking  with  such 
animation  to  the  group  of  ladies  sur- 
rounding him  1 " 

"  0,  that  is  M.  D ,  the  popular 

artist ;  he  is  an  immense  favorite,  and 
most  amusing.  To  look  at  his  inex- 
pressive face  one  would  not  believe  he 
could  so  well  represent  the  horroi-s  of 
the  infernal  regions.  —  0,  Sir  Edward, 
and  Lady  Courtnay,  and  Mademoiselle 
Elizabeth  !  I  am  more  than  happy  to  see 
you  all."  And  La  Marquise  held  out 
both  hands  in  eager  welcome  to  the  new 
arrivals. 

Scarce  had  Sir  Edward  and  the  ladies 
replied  to  her  kind  reception  when  they 
all  recognized  Claude, — Sir  Edward  with 
evident  pleasure,  (!61e8te  with  trembling 
indecision,  and  Elizabeth  with  unmis- 
takable gravity  and  coldness.  During 
this  first  moment  of  excited  surprise  La 
Marquise  studied  the  group  with  the 
keenest  attention. 

Sir  Edward's  first  act  was  to  present 
Claude  to  his  wife  and  daughter. 
I     "  M.  le  Comte  de  Clermont,  my  dears, 


'Biiju^afc.ixiitet'?' 


le 


nost  contemptible 
most  noble.  Here 
ur  brigbtcst  stars," 
pale,  earnest  face, 
bowed  low  before 

is  M.  L.  N , 

orator.  A.h,  mon 
es  all  hearts !  lie 
Bak  the  truth,  no 
ntrepid  contributor 
Mondet.  Did  you 
n  Equity?"         ,  .  , 

ply- 

)ility  and  truth  of 
'ell  as  the  courage 
ds  them.  It  is  to 
le  nation  must  be 
«acher.  I  am  told 
•et  police  are  using 
>ver  who  he  is ;  and 
reatened  with  sup- 
kes  any  more  of  his 
e  unfortunate  man 
me  to  save  himself 

oice  of  La  Marquise 
and  her  eyes  were 
le  face  of  Claude  as 
is  an  apostlu  of  the 
be  silent  from  the 
aces.  —  Who  is  that 
n  talking  with  such 
roup  of  ladies  sur- 

3 ,  the  popular 

mense  favorite,  and 
I  look  at  his  inex- 
uld  not  believe  ho 
jent  the  horroi-s  of 
.— 0,  Sir  Edward, 
and  Mademoiselle 
e  than  happy  to  see 
Marquise  held  out 
welcome  to  the  new 

ward  and  the  ladies 
eoeption  when  they 
, — Sir  Edward  with 
este  with  trembling 
ftbeth  with  unmis- 
coldness.  During 
excited  surprise  La 
he  group  with  the 

act  was  to  present 
id  daughter. 
:]!lermont,  my  dears, 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


113 


who  80  modestly  evaded  your  gratitude 
on  that  dreadful  night  when  ho  risked 
his  life  to  save  ours." 

With  feelings  of  extreme  culpability 
both  Celeste  and  Elizabeth  acknowl- 
edged their  indebtedness,  and  added 
the  conveutional  professions  of  pleasure 
at  meeting  again  under  such  agreeable 
circumstances,  with  a  calmness  that 
surprised  Claude  as  well  as  themselves. 

Happily  for  all,  at  that  moment  Ray- 
mond appeared  upon  the  scene,  and  the 
conversation  became  general.  La  Mar- 
quise was  brilliant,  with  smiles  that 
dazzled,  and  flashes  of  wit  that  startled  ; 
Sir  Edward  was  overflowing  with  good- 
humor  and  compliments;  he  was  one  of 
the  oldest  satellites  that  revolved  around 
La  Marquise,  and  was  therefore  allowed 
more  privileges  than  the  younger  aspi- 
rants for  favor.  Philip  was  jealous  of 
Claude's  long  tSte-&-tSte,  and  uneasy  in 
the  presence  of  Elizabeth ;  so  he  was 
moody  and  satirical  by  turns.  Claude 
was  calm  and  almost  solemn,  as  he  was 
in  every  great  crisis ;  to  him  this  was 
*a  moment  pf  no  common  importance. 
Ho  pitied  Celeste's  pallor,  and  her  un- 
successful eflbrt  to  hide  her  agitation, 
that  she  might  join  in  the  conversation 
with  composure ;  while  he  respected 
Elizabeth's  anxiety  to  conceal  her  own 
troubled  reflections,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  divert  attention  fi-om  her  friend. 
"  I  will  withdraw  quietly,"  he  thought, 
"  and  relieve  these  unhappy  women  of 
my  presence."  So,  unnoticed  by  the 
others,  he  took  leave  of  La  Marquise 
and  left  the  group  at  the  same  moment 
as  Monseigneur  the  Bishop  of  Rouen 
joined  it. 

When  Claude  reached  the  retirement 
of  his  own  room,  his  thoughts  were  still 
in  a  terrible  confusion  over  which  he 
had  no  power.  The  successive  events 
of  the  evening,  so  unexpected,  and  of  a 
nature  so  trying,  had  thoroughly  demol- 
ished his  boasted  structure  of  atoiciam, 
and  the  meeting  with  Fabien  had 
aroused  feelings  which  he  had  hoped 
could  never  again  And  a  place  in  his 
heart.  After  sitting  a  long  time  ab- 
sorbed in  profound  thought  over  his 
complication  of  difilculties,  ho  arose,  and 
pacing  the  floor  with  rapid  strides 
said,  in  a  voice  full  of  disappointment 
and  Borrow :   "  There  is  a  fatality  in 


this,  —  there  is  a  fatality.  God  knows 
how  I  have  tried  to  avoid  these  shoals 
on  which  I  am  shipwrecked.  I  did  not 
willingly  rush  into  this  danger.  I 
struggled  against  it,  I  tried  to  shun  it 

0  Philip,  my  friend,  in  your  kindness 
you  have  been  most  cruel !  That  mys- 
terious woman  has  thrown  a  spell  over 
me  that  I  cannot  cast  off.  How  inscruta- 
ble is  the  chain  of  circumstance  that 
unites  the  severed  ties  of  life  !  Again 
all  is  undone,  my  peace  of  mind  is  dis- 
turbed, my  old  love  revived,  my  old  de- 
sires renewed.  In  one  hour  1  have  for- 
gotten all  my  years  of  sacrifice  and  sor- 
row ;  the  high  M'all  that  I  have  striven 
to  build  with  care  between  nic  and  the 
angel  I  still  adore  is  swept  away  by 
these  floods  of  passion.  0  Celeste,  my 
pale  darling,  I  hoped  we  should  meet 
no  more  until  we  met  in  eternity !  but  I 
will  strive  to  be  strong  for  thee,  thou 
shalt  never  have  cause  to  reproach 
me." 

"Celeste,"  said  Elizabeth  that  same 
night,  as  she  stooped  over  her  to  kiss 
her  before  retiring,  —  "  Celeste,  darling, 
there  seems  to  be  a  fatality  in  our  meet- 
ing M.  le  Comte  de  Clermont  again ;  now 
that  it  has  occurred,  I  regret  our  having 
kept  anything  from  papa.  I  felt  terribly 
guilty  when  he  presented  him  to  us  as 
though  ho  had  been  a  stranger." 

"  We  will  think  of  him  then  only  as 
having  seen  him  for  the  first  time  to- 
night. We  will  forget  all  the  past,  that 
will  be  best,"  returned  Celeste,  with  a 
trembling  sigh  of  regret,  that  plainly 
contradicted  her  assertion. 

Madame  la  Marquise  de  Ventadour 
retired  to  her  luxurious  chamber  after 
her  last  guest  had  departed,  and  locking 
the  door  against  her  maid,  she  almost 
tore  the  jewels  from  her  arms  and  neck, 
the  band  that  confined  her  hair,  and 
the  girdle  encircling  her  waist.  "  They 
press  too  heavily,"  she  said  between  her 
white  teeth,  as  she  threw  them  negli- 
gently on  her  dressing-table.  "  My  God, 
how  they  tortured  me  while  his  truthful 
eyes  were  looking  into  my  face!  Ah, 
for  what  a  price  I  sold  myself!  If  tears 
of  blood  could  wash  away  the  sin,  the 
fever,  and  anguish  of  my  soul,  then  I 
should  be  pure  and  sufler  no  more,  for 

1  have  wept  them,  I  have  wept  them 
until  my  heart  is  drained  white." 


turn 


114 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


PART  THIRD. 

A  DINNER  IN   THB   RUB  CASTIOLIONB. 

Tub  next  morning  after  the  toirie  at 
the  Hutol  Vontudour,  Claude  sat  at  his 
desk  vainly  trying  to  concentrate  his 
thoughts  upon  the  work  before  him,  an 
article  which  ho  had  been  preparing  with 
great  care  for  one  of  the  hberal  journals, 
which  was  at  that  time  a  mouthpiece 
of  the  reform  party.  Whatever  ho  did 
toward  emancipating  and  enlightening 
humanity  was  done  after  deep  delibera- 
tion and  mature  thought,  for  he  wished 
to  be  both  generous  and  just ;  but  this 
moruiug  he  felt  incapable  of  calm,  clear 
reasoning,  he  could  neither  separate  nor 
arrange  the  chaos  of  ideas  that  filled 
his  mind.  He  thought  of  Gabrielle  do 
Ventadour,  and  of  Celeste,  and  then  of 
Fabien  in  his  bishop's  dress,  honored 
and  prosperous ;  of  the  wrong  Fabien 
had  done  him,  of  the  still  greater  wrong 
to  that  pale  sad  woman,  who  seemed  a 
living  but  silent  reproach  to  his  cruelty ; 
and  then  again  the  lovely  face  with  its 
crown  of  silver-white  hair,  the  strange 
expressions  of  the  eyes,  the  mouth  with 
passion  and  sorrow  stamped  under  its 
smile,  came  between  him  and  his  paper, 
and  he  laid  his  pen  down  in  despair  and 
resigned  himself  entirely  to  his  revery. 
Ho  thought  of  all  who  had  taken  part 
in  the  scene  of  the  previous  evening  as 
we  think  of  those  who  are  closely  con- 
nected with  our  interior  life,  invisible 
cords  united  and  drew  him  persistently 
toward  those  whom  the  day  before  ho 
had  believed  to  be  separated  from  him 
forever.  He  felt  a  strong  desire,  so 
strong  that  he  could  scarce  conquer  it, 
to  see  again  that  remarkable  woman 
who  had  left  such  a  strange  impression 
upon  his  memory.  She  had  attracted 
him,  fascinated  him,  if  you  will,  but  it 
■was  not  a  physical  fascination.  There 
was  no  material  element  in  the  power- 
ful spoil  that  inthralled  him ;  he  did  not 
■counect  it  with  her  beauty,  her  wit,  her 
gracious  and  winning  manner.  It  was  a 
weird,  supernatural  charm  that  invested 
her.  He  thought  of  her  as  one  might 
think  of  a  vision  that  had  appeared  in  a 
dream,  or  of  one  of  those  startling  fan- 
tasies of  a  diseased  brain,  when  one  who 
lias  "boon  long  forgotten  in  the  dust  and 
darkness  of  the  grave,  and  the  form  of 


whose  face  is  even  obliterated  from  mem> 
ory  by  the  cifacing  finger  of  Time,  sud- 
denly stands  before  us  in  the  silence  and 
solemnity  of  the  night,  wearing  the  same 
smile  that  once  made  our  life  glad.  She 
was  a  resurrection  of  something  that  hud 
died  long  before  from  his  existence,  and 
with  it  an  old  affection,  an  old  interest 
was  renewed  to  the  exclusion  of  later 
influences.  Then  Celeste  haunted  him, 
contending  with  the  other  for  the  first 
place  in  his  thoughts  ;  she  had  changed, 
sadly  changed,  during  the  years  that  had 
passed  since  he  saw  her  on  the  shore  of 
Quiberon ;  she  was  slighter,  paler,  lan- 
guid, and  sorrowful ;  he  saw  it  all  at  a 
glance,  and  understood  that  her  life  was 
one  continuous  martyrdom,  that  care 
and  anxiety  were  pressing  like  a  heavy 
burden  upon  her ;  and,  more,  he  was  tor- 
tured with  the  belief  that  her  health 
was  seriously  undermined,  and  that  un- 
less something  was  done  to  save  her  she 
would  sink  into  a  premature  grave.  "0 
merciful  Heavens ! "  ho  thought,  "  why 
cannot  I  take  her  away  from  the  misery 
that  is  killing  her,  to  the  shelter  of  my 
love  1  I  might  save  her,  and  prolong  the 
life  that  is  so  much  dearer  than  my  own. 
I  might  make  her  happy,  and  thereby 
atone  for  the  suffering  I  have  unwillingly 
caused  her ;  but  it  cannot  bo,  it  cannot 
be,  I  can  only  watch  over  her  from  afar 
and  pray  for  her.  My  lamb,  my  poor 
gentlo  lamb,  thy  meek  eyes  haunt  me 
with  a  mute  appeal  for  help,  and  I  can 
do  nothing  for  thee."  Mingled  with  his 
pity,  his  sorrow,  his  tender  desires,  was 
a  drop  of  gall  that  imbittered  his  whole 
soul;  it  was  his  indignation,  his  contempt, 
his  righteous  anger,  against  the  man 
who  had  defrauded  both  of  happiness, 
"  What  right  had  he  to  take  from  us 
what  no  human  power  can  compensate  us 
fort  He  has  ruined  two  lives;  he  should 
be  punished,  he  should  bear  the  mark  of 
Cain  upon  him,  he  should  be  branded  by 
the  hand  of  God ;  and  yet  he  prospers, 
and  the  world  honors  him.  O  justice  t 
justice  !  thou  art  indeed  a  mockery." 

In  the  midst  of  these  uncomfortable 
reflections,  a  visitor  was  announced. 
It  was  Sir  Edward  Courtnay.  When 
Claude  rose  to  receive  him,  he  came 
forward  with  outstretched  hands,  de- 
claring with  the  utmost  empressement 
that  be  could  not  allow  a  day  to  paea 


Iterated  from  mem- 
pger  of  Time,  sud- 
in  the  Bilonco  and 
,  wearing  the  same 
our  life  glnd.    She 
omething  that  Iiud 
his  existence,  and 
|ion,  nn  old  interest 
exclusion  of  later 
lesto  haunted  him, 
other  for  the  first 
;  she  had  changed, 
the  years  that  had 
er  on  the  shore  of 
lighter,  paler,  Ian- 
he  saw  it  all  at  a 
od  that  her  life  was 
rtyrdom,  that  care 
essing  like  a  heavy 
id,  more,  he  was  tor- 
ef  that  her  health 
nined,  and  that  un- 
lone  to  save  her  she 
emature  grave.    "0 
'  ho  thought,  "  why 
ivay  from  the  misery 
to  the  shelter  of  my 
her,  and  prolong  the 
dearer  than  my  own. 
happy,  and  thereby 
ng  I  have  unwillingly 
cannot  be,  it  cannot 
h  over  her  from  afar 
My  lamb,  my  poor 
aeek  eyes  haunt  rne 
for  help,  and  I  can 
."     Mingled  with  his 
3  tender  desires,  was 
imbittered  his  whole 
lunation,  his  contempt, 
ir,  against  the  man 
i  both  of  happiness, 
he  to  take  from  us 
irer  can  compensate  us 
[two  lives;  ho  should 
luld  bear  the  mark  of 
should  be  branded  by 
and  yet  he  prospers, 
ors  him.     0  justice  ! 
ndeed  a  mockery." 
these  uncomfortable 
:or    was    announced, 
d  Courtnay.     When 
iceivo  him,  he  came 
stretched  hands,  de- 
utmost  empreiaemeni 
allow  a  day  to  paea 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


115 


without  ofTcring  htm  some  little  hospi- 
tality. "  And  my  wife  and  daughter 
join  with  me  in  the  same  feeling,"  he 
said ;  "  therefore  I  am  come  to  pray 
that  you  will  dine  with  us  this  evening, 
quite  informally,  no  one  but  yourself 
and  Kayniond." 

Claude  hesitated ;  shotild  he  accept, 
or  should  he  refuse  1  His  honorable 
character  would  not  allow  him  to  suc- 
cumb to  the  temptation  without  com- 
bating it.  In  the  first  place,  he  did  not 
feel  at  ease  in  regard  to  the  deception 
they  all  three,  CiSleste,  Elizabeth,  and 
himself,  had  tacitly  imposed  upon  Sir 
Edward.  If  he  could  have  said,  "  I  was 
once  the  lover  of  your  wife,  and  I  adore 
her  still.  I  deceived  you  at  Sarzeau 
by  allowing  you  to  believe  that  she  was 
a  stranger  to  me.  Now,  if  you  wish  to 
open  yotir  doors  to  me,  I  am  ready  to 
enter."  In  such  a  case  he  would  have 
felt  that  he  was  acting  an  honorable 
part.  But  still  to  continue  the  decep- 
tion, and  accept  an  hospitable  offer 
made  in  good  faith,  was  most  revolting 
to  him.  If  he  alone  had  been  involved, 
he  would  not  for-  one  moment  have 
hesitated  to  declare  the  truth.  Now 
it  was  necessary,  either  to  accept 
the  baronet's  friendship,  or  to  give  a 
reason  for  refusing  it ;  but  if  ho  ac- 
knowledged his  own  fault,  ho  would  by 
BO  doing  betray  the  two  women,  who 
for  some  cause,  perhaps  most  important 
to  themselves,  had  concealed  the  fact 
of  their  previous  meeting  and  of  the 
scene  that  had  then  occurred.  He  did 
not  know  what  had  prompted  them  to 
such  a  course,  nor  what  the  result 
might  be  to  them  if  ho  revealed  all. 
Then  again,  Sir  Edward  had  said  that 
his  wife  and  daughter  had  wished  that 
he  might  be  invited.  They  then  de- 
sired to  place  him  on  a  friendly  footing, 
perhaps  to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  In 
any  case  it  seemed  a  sort  of  treaty  of 
peace,  an  offer  of  an  amicable  alliance, 
which  he  could  not  disregard.  Of  one 
thing  he  was  certain,  and  that  was  that 
the  unhappy  woman  needed  a  friend, 
some  one  who  had  no  selfish  interest  in 
his  devotion  to  her,  and  he  believed 
himself  at  that  moment  capable  of  any 
sacrifice,  any  immolation,  that  might 
make  him  more  worthy  of  her  confi- 
dence.   Therefore,   after   this   interior 


debate,  which  was  shorter  than  the 
time  taken  to  descril)o  it,  he  accepted 
the  invitation  to  dinner ;  and  Sir  Ed- 
ward went  away  well  satisfied,  con- 
gratulating himself  that  the  noble, 
unsuspecting  nature  of  Claude  did  not 
detect  any  selfish  motive  under  his 
importunate  attention. 

Secretly  C^Sleste  wished  to  see 
Claude  again.  She  hoped  to  see  him, 
she  longed  to  see  him.  She  admitted 
that  desire  to  herself,  and  denied  it  the 
next  moment  with  tears  and  blushes. 
"  I  must  not  see  him,  Elizabeth  says  I 
must  not ;  and  yet  why  cannot  we  be 
friends?"  she  repeated  over  and  over 
to  herself.  "  We  nr-ight  both  forget  the 
past,  and  be  friends.  Life  would  be 
worth  supporting  if  I  could  but  have 
his  counsel,  his  aid.  Poor  Elizabeth  is 
but  little  better  able  to  bear  my  bur- 
dens than  I  am  myself ;  and  yet  I  am 
obliged  to  lay  them  upon  her,  because 
I  cannot  stand  up  imder  them.  0,  if 
we  both  might  go  to  Claude,  and  tell 
him  of  our  troubles,  and  ask  him  to 
show  us  some  way  out  of  them !  I  am 
sure  if  Elizabeth  could  look  at  it  in 
that  way,  she  might  think  it  better  to 
allow  him  to  he  our  friend." 

When,  the  next  morning,  over  the 
breakfast-table,  Sir  Edward  spoke  of 
Claude,  and  suggested  that  he  should 
1x3  invited  to  dine  with  them  that 
evening,  both  ladies  unexpectedly  ob- 
jected ;  and  then  seeing  that  their 
objection,  without  apparent  reason, 
caused  some  surprise,  they  confusedly 
and  hesitatingly  complied,  and  even 
expressed  the  hope  that  he  might  come. 

"There  is  no  reason  in  the  world 
why  he  should  not,  my  dears,"  said  the 
baronet,  rubbing  his  hands  together 
good-naturedly.  "He  is  a  superior 
young  man,  so  distinguished  looking, 
and  he  belongs  to  one  of  the  oldest  and 
best  families  of  France ;  besides,  I  am 
told  that  he  is  rich,  very  rich.  Ho 
is  an  excellent  parti  for  you,  Elizabeth, 
an  unexceptionable  parti;  encourage 
him,  my  daughter,  encourage  him." 

"  0  papa !  how  can  yon  talk  so  1 " 
said  Elizabeth,  with  a  little  auger  and 
contempt  in  her  voice,  while  Celeste 
turned  paler,  and  atirred  her  coffee 
nervously. 

After  Sir  Edward  left  the  room,  Lady 


aUiiii'jmww.^^  -.  ^-. 


116 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


Courtnay  looked  up,  and  seeing  Eliza- 
both'B  eyes  fixed  upon  hur  inquiringly, 
she  flushed  and  paled,  tried  to  speak, 
and  then  burst  into  tears. 

"  It  is  no  use  to  weep,"  said  Eliz- 
abeth, a  littlo  severely.  "We  have 
both  deceived  poor  papa,  and  we  must 
bear  the  consequences  calmly,  or  else 
I  must  tell  him  all,  and  leave  him  to 
punish  us  as  he  thinks  best." 

"  0  Elizabeth  !  I  implore  you  not  to 
tell  him,"  cried  Celeste,  wringing  her 
hands.  "  It  can  do  no  good  now.  I 
will  try  to  forget  the  past,  and  look  upon 
Claude  only  as  an  ordinary  acquaint- 
ance. I  promise  you,  Elizabeth,  that  I 
will  never  refer  in  any  way  to  the  past 
when  I  am  with  him.  In  everything 
else  I  will  do  as  you  think  best,  but  in 
this  hear  to  mo.  I  have  no  strength, 
no  courage  to  bear  Sir  Edward's  anger." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Celeste,"  said  Eliz- 
abeth, very  sternly,  yet  her  eyes  were 
dim  with  tears.  "  We  have  both  de- 
ceived papa,  I  as  much  as  you ;  and 
perhaps  my  deception  is  even  more 
wicked,  because  I  am  his  daughter,  and 
he  should  be  first  to  me  in  everything. 
And  I  believe  a  person  who  has  done 
wrong  and  has  not  the  courage  to  con- 
fess it  the  worst  of  cowards.  Now  I 
am  not  a  coward  where  I  alone  am 
concerned,  but  I  am  a  coward  when  I 
am  obliged  to  make  you  suffer,  and  I 
cannot  find  the  force  to  do  it.  There- 
fore I  shall  listen  to  you  and  shall  not 
confess  this  wrong  to  papa,  but  only  on 
one  condition,  and  that  is  that  you 
will  never  allow  M.  le  Comte  de  Cler- 
mont to  refer  in  any  way  to  the  past. 
Your  only  safety  is  in  that." 

"  I  never  will,  Elizabeth,"  replied 
Celeste,  solemnly,  —  "I  never  will ;  the 
past  is  as  dead  to  me  as  the  future  is 
hopeless."  Then  she  threw  herself  on 
her  friend's  neck  and  they  wept  silently 
together. 

When  Claude  arrived  at  the  Rue 
Castiglione,  he  found  Lady  Courtnay 
and  Elizabeth  alone  in  the  salon ;  they 
met  him  calmly  and  kindly,  without  the 
least  demonstration  of  anxiety,  or  any 
reference  to  another  acquaintance  than 
the  slight  one  of  the  previous  evening. 
From  their  manner  he  understood  the 
r6lt  he  was  expected  to  play,  and  he 
tacitly  agreed  to  it,  though  not  without 


some  qualms  of  conscience.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  describe  the  feelings  of 
the  three  poor  souls  who  were  strug- 
gling to  keep  in  the  straight  path,  after 
the  sacrifice  of  their  own  integrity,  as 
they  stood  together  over  the  bright 
wood-fire,  awaiting  the  presence  of  the 
man  they  had  deceived,  each  ot.e  talk- 
ing, but  scarcely  knowing  what  the 
other  said,  and  neither  of  the  three 
daring  to  fall  into  silence,  fearful  lest 
he  or  she  should  betray  a  mental  in- 
quietude to  the  other. 

The  room  was  filled  with  the  calm 
that  twilight  brings;  it  had  the  sim- 
ple homelike  look,  more  English  than 
French,  for  Elizabeth  had  left  the  traces 
of  her  nationality  everywhere.  There 
wore  warm  carpets  on  the  floors,  pictures 
on  the  walls,  flowers  growing  in  jardi- 
niires  at  the  windows,  comfortable 
chairs  and  sofas,  footstools  and  tlte-d- 
titet,  an  open  piano  covered  with  music, 
tables  filled  with  books  and  journals,  and 
on  one  side  of  the  fire  a  dainty  work- 
stand  and  a  low  sowing-chair ;  and  then 
the  ladies  in  their  simple  dinner-dresses 
seemed  so  much  more  lovely  than  in 
the  lace  and  jewels  of  an  evening  toilet. 
Celeste's  pale  blue  silk  dress  and  pearl 
ornaments  set  off  her  fair  face  and 
blond  hair,  while  Elizabeth  looked 
sweet  and  noble  in  simple  white,  with- 
out jewels  or  ribbons.  There  was  a 
sincerity  and  naturalness  about  all,  an 
air  of  elegance  and  comfort,  without 
fashion  and  luxury. 

As  Claude  observed  the  details  of  the 
surroundings,  the  signs  of  quiet  domes- 
tic life,  his  heart  was  touched  to  tender- 
ness and  filled  with  the  old  longing  for 
such  an  existence.  His  retiring,  gentle 
nature  was  created  for  pure  family  ties 
and  loving  companionship  ;  it  had  been 
his  dream  long  ago  at  Clermont,  but 
the  intervention  of  another  and  the 
will  of  God  had  prevented  its  fulfilment. 
And  he  knew  that  now  such  a  desire 
could  never  be  realized,  the  chance  was 
over  for  him ;  another  filled  his  place 
in  the  life  of  Celeste.  She  made  a  home 
for  one  who  had  no  moral  right  to  her, 
one  who  had  obtained  her  unfairly,  one 
who  was  utterly  unworthy  of  the  treas- 
ure he  possessed,  and  that  was  perhaps 
the  most  bitter  thought  of  all ;  her 
husband   waa  a  selfish    profligate,   an 


M'J>^i';^^ 


3ience.     It  would 

the  feelings  of 

who  were  strug- 

traight  path,  after 

own  integrity,  as 

over   the    bright 

lu  presence  of  the 

|ed,  each  o:.e  talk- 

lowing  what    the 

kher  of  the   throe 

jlcnce,  fearful  lest 

[tray  a  mental  in- 

ed  with  the  calm 
,   it  had  the   sim- 
nore  English  than 
had  left  the  traces 
irerywhere.      There 
1  the  floors,  pictures 
growing  in  jardi- 
:ows,    comfortable 
otstools  and  tite-d- 
»vered  with  music, 
is  and  journals,  and 
fire  a  dainty  work- 
ing-chair ;  and  then 
mple  dinner-dresses 
ore  lovely  than   in 
>f  an  evening  toilet, 
lilk  dress  and  pearl 
her  fair   face  and 
Elisabeth    looked 
simple  white,  with- 
ons.     There  was  a 
ilness  about  all,  an 
d  comfort,  without 

sd  the  details  of  the 
igns  of  quiet  domes- 
s  touched  to  tendor- 

the  old  longing  for 

His  retiring,  gentle 
for  pure  family  ties 
>nship  ;  it  had  been 
)  at  Clermont,  but 
r  another  and  the 
'ented  its  fulfilment. 

now  such  a  desire 
zed,  the  chance  was 
her  filled  his  place 
e.   She  made  a  home 

moral  right  to  her, 
ed  her  unfairly,  one 
iirorthy  of  the  treas- 
nd  that  was  perhaps 
lought  of  all ;  her 
Ifish    profligate,   an 


A  CmOWN  PROM  THE  SPEAR. 


iir 


unprincipled  spendthrift.  "  If  he  were 
but  a  good  noble  man,  I  could  endure 
it,"  ho  thought,  "because  I  should 
know  she  was  happy ;  but  as  it  is,  sho 
is  miserable,  sho  and  Elizabeth  are  both 
enduring  protracted  martyrdom,  and 
God  only  knows  when  it  will  end."  He 
tried  to  banish  such  unpleasant  reflec- 
tions. "  I  will  at  least  bo  happy  one 
evening  in  the  presence  of  this  adorable 
woman;  she  shall  not  know  I  suspect 
her  secret,  dear  angel !  I  will  make  her 
happy  by  seeming  happy  myself,  and 
I  will  watch  over  both  until  the  time 
comes  when  they  need  a  Ariend,  a 
brother;  then  I  will  be  ready  to  aid 
them."  So  he  solaced  himself  with 
these  few  drops  of  consolation  wrung 
from  his  pain. 

When  Sir  Edward  entered  with  Ray- 
mond, they  found  all  three  engaged  in 
a  cheerful  conversation.  Elizabeth's 
usual  gravity  and  reticence  seemed  to 
have  disappeared,  and  Celeste's  gentle 
face  was  beaming  with  smiles. 

Philip  was  in  better  humor  than  on 
the  preceding  evening;  he  had  just 
left  la  belle  dame,  who  hod  favored 
him  with  a  long  tHe-h-tite,  and  after- 
wards had  invited  him  to  drive  with 
her  in  the  Bois,  where  he  had  been 
envied  by  all  her  admirers,  which  flat- 
tered his  vanity  and  encouraged  his 
hopes.  To  Elizabeth  he  was  most 
amiable,  treating  her  with  a  sort  of 
caressing  deference,  such  as  a  boy  might 
display  toward  a  cherished  elder  sister, 
while  she  in  turn  smiled  gravely  at  his 
nonsense,  and  rebuked  his  faults  gently, 
but  seriously. 

Claude  took  Celeste  in  to  dinner,  and 
sat  at  her  side  in  a  sort  of  happy  dream. 
Dish  after  dish  came  and  was  sent 
away  without  his  knowing  of  what  it 
was  composed ;  he  ate  and  drank  me- 
chanically, too  happy  to  discriminate, 
and  joined  in  the  general  conversation 
with  remarks  that  appeared  apropos,  but 
were  in  foct  uttered  without  thought. 

After  the  ladies  had  withdrawn,  and 
while  the  gentlemen  lingered  over  their 
wine,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the 
reception  of  the  previous  evening  at  the 
Hdtel  Ventadour ;  and  Sir  Edward  in- 
quired of  Claude  if  he,  like  every  one 
else,  had  been  fascinated  by  La  Mar- 
quise. 


"  No,"  replied  Claude,  "  I  think  not, 
not,  at  least,  in  the  way  you  mean  ;  still 
she  made  a  most  powerful  impression 
upon  me.  I  imagine  it  is  her  remarkable 
style  of  beauty  that  charms,  it  strikes 
one  ut  the  first  glance  as  something 
supernatural ;  her  fresh,  youthful  face, 
surrounded  by  that  dazzling  white  hair, 
has  a  most  bizarre  effect ;  what  could 
have  so  blanched  it  at  her  agol" 

Sir  Edward  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  laughed.  "That  is  a  mystery,  as 
well  as  herself.  About  five  years  ago, 
la  belle  dame  suddenly  flashed  upon 
society  as  La  Marquise  do  Ventadour. 
Where  the  lucky  octogenarian  found  her 
none  can  tell.  Society  went  into  agonies 
over  the  enigma,  but  the  old  Marquis 
did  not  live  long  enough  to  explain  it, 
and  the  fair  Gabrielle  is  too  discreet 
and  clever  to  reveal  a  secret  that  con- 
stitutes her  greatest  power;  for  she 
well  knows  that  if  you  set  the  world  to 
wondering  it  will  soon  worship,  and  it 
does  not  matter  who  she  wa»,  she  is  the 
most  brilliant,  the  most  lovely,  the  most 
witty,  and  the  most  courted  woman  in 
Paris,  and  I  might  add,  the  most  heart- 
less, for  she  has  no  more  feeling  than  a 
mummy." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  Raymond, 
with  a  sudden  flush,  "  she  is  not  insen- 
sible. Because  she  is  cold  to  the  world, 
it  does  not  follow  that  she  is  cold  to 
every  one.  I  am  sure  you  do  her 
great  injustice ;  she  has  a  noble,  gener- 
ous heart." 

"  Indeed ! "  returned  Sir  Edward, 
"then  you  have  been  more  successful 
than  her  other  admirers  if  you  have 
discovered  that  organ." 

"  I  did  not  say  she  had  a  heart  for 
me.  Man  Dieu  !  I  wish  she  had  ;  she 
is  in  love  with  some  one,  and  I  can't 
discover  who  it  is,  unless  it  is  M.  le 
Comte,  for  she  maddens  me  with  her 
constant  praises  of  him." 

"  You  exaggerate  fearfully,  Philip,"  said 
Claude,  impatiently ;  "  Madame  la  Mar- 
quise wastes  neither  thought  nor  speech 
on  such  an  ungracious  churl  as  I  am." 

"We  shall  see,  wait  and  we  shall 
see,"  returned  Philip,  oracularly,  as  they 
left  the  table  to  join  the  ladies  at  tea  in 
the  talon. 

The  evening  seemed  to  fly  swiftly  on 
light  wings,  and  Claude's  spirit  rose  and 


iiji»li'llr    '     - 


118 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


flouted  away  from  the  aad  reality  of  his 
life  on  ]>inions  of  imaginary  bliss ;  ho 
was  intoxicated  with  his  happiness  ;  the 
presence  of  Celeste  acted  like  a  charm. 
He  liHtoned  to  her  while  she  sang,  and 
her  sweetly  8ym])athctic  voice  softened 
him  to  tears ;  and  when  she  selected  a 
simple  little  cluinton  that  they  had  often 
sung  together  at  Clermont,  be  could 
scarcely  contain  his  emotion ;  yet  be 
was  not  sorrowful,  his  heart  was  full  of 
a  delicious  joy,  and  he  almndoned  him- 
self to  the  delight  of  the  moment ;  ho 
was  only  conscious  that  he  was  with 
Celeste,  that  the  sweetness  of  the  old 
days  lingered  around  them,  that  heart 
spoke  to  heart  in  a  mute  but  powerful 
language  ;  often  her  eyes  met  his  with 
a  timid  glance  of  joy,  while  smiles  that 
were  infantine  in  their  freshness  and 
unaffected  happiness  chased  away  the 
pensive  shade  from  her  expressive  face. 
It  was  an  hour  that  both  remembered 
long  after  with  mingled  joy  and  regret, 
for  it  was  the  first  unconscious  step 
down  that  dangerous  declivity  from 
which  it  is  iuipossiblo  to  return  as 
intact  as  one  has  descended. 

Philip  was  as  full  of  absurdities  as  a 
child ;  be  sang  the  most  ridiculous 
songs,  recounted  the  most  laughable 
adventures,  and  recited  the  most  amus- 
ing selections  from  the  literature  of 
different  countries. 

"  Do  you  remember  an  old  song  I 
was  never  weary  of  hearing  when  we 
were  children,  Philip  1 "  said  Elizabeth, 
with  softened  voice  and  dreamy  eyes. 

"  Indeed  I  do,  every  word  of  it ;  and 
I  also  remember  how  heart-broken  you 
were  if  I  left  out  one  verso  that  you 
particularly  liked,  and  that  I  particu- 
larly disliked.  Will  you  hear  it  now  1 
I  can  repeat  it  with  all  the  fervor  of 
other  days."  And  Raymond,  standing 
up,  threw  back  his  shoulders,  extended 
hands,  and,  assuming  a  tragic  tone,  he 
recited  the  whole  of  that  quaint  old 
English  ballad  in  which  the  sufferings 
of  Young  Beichan  and  Susie  Pye  are  so 
patheticiUly  narrated.  When  he  had 
finished  he  turned  Ut  i^'izabeth,  and, 
looking  her  earnestly  ia  the  face,  said, 
"  We  were  one  then,  we  grew  together 
in  thought  and  feeling." 

"  But  we  have  grown  far  apart  since 
those  days,  Philip,"  she  replied  sadly. 


"  Do  you  also  remember  theso  lines 
of  the  unfortunate  Marquia  of  Mon- 
trose 1 — 

'  But  if  thou  wilt  ))c  constant  then, 
And  faithful  of  thy  woi-d, 
I  'U  maku  thi'p  glorioiiB  by  my  pen, 
And  famous  by  my  sword. 
I  '11  scrvu  thee  in  such  noble  w«}s 
Was  never  heard  before  ; 
I  '11  crown  and  deck  theo  aU  with  bays, 
And  love  thee  evermore.' 

O  Elizabeth,  I  swear  I  meant  it  all 
then  !  Whoso  fault  is  it  that  you  are 
not  wearing  my  bays  1 " 

"  Hush,  Philip,  for  pity's  sake  don't 
jest  at  our  disappointment,"  said  the 
poor  girl,  bending  her  head  over  the 
piece  of  embroidery  in  her  fingers,  to 
hide  the  hot  flush  that  crimsoned  her 
face. 

"  Have  you  seen  these  exquisite 
drawings  in  Mademoiselle's  album'?''' 
And  Claude,  as  he  spoke,  gave  the  book 
through  which  he  had  been  looking 
with  Celeste  to  Raymond.  "  You  will 
find  some  charming  little  things  well 
worth  examining." 

"  Here    is    a    beautiful    impromptu 

sketch  by  M.   D ,"  said  Elizabeth, 

who  had  recovered  from  her  confusion, 
and  now  leaned  over  Philip  as  calmly 
as  though  no  thoughtless  words  of  his 
had  ever  ruffled  the  fountain  of  her 
heart.  "  Is  it  not  expressive  1  It  illus- 
trates a  verse  of  Lamartine's  poem,  Le 

Lac.    And  hero  is  another  by  M.C , 

suggested  by  Dcschamp'a  Petite  Violettt. 
They  are  all  done  a  prima,  as  artists 
say.  Add  one  to  them,  Philip,  with  a 
line  from  one  of  your  poems." 

Raymond  took  the  album,  and  after 
working  a  few  moments  industriously 
he  returned  it  to  Elizabeth  with  a 
solemn  countenance.  He  had  carefully 
drawn  a  skull  and  cross-bones,  under 
which  he  had  written,  Aviee  la  Jin. 

"  0  Philip,  how  could  j  i  >u  ruin  my 
book  with  such  a  horror!"  she  said, 
looking  at  him  reproachfully;  "see, 
papa,  what  a  gloomy  thing  he  has  made." 

"  An  eccentricity  of  genius,"  observed 
Sir  Edward,  returning  the  album  to  his 
daughter.  Elizabeth  took  it  and  laid 
it  away  with  a  clouded  face.  It  was 
only  a  foolish  jest  of  Philip's,  but  it 
left  a  disagreeable  impression  upon  her 
mind. 


.  nmmaiamMii. 


aember  these  lines 
I  Marquis  of  Mon- 


EonBtant  then, 

Iwoi-d, 

|ou8  by  my  pen, 

■sword. 

Iich  noble  wajs 

pforo  J 
tlico  aU  with  bays, 

liiorv.' 

!ar  I  meant  it  all 
is  it  that  you  nre 
1" 

ir  pity's  sake  don't 
intment,"  said  the 
her  hood  over  the 
r  in  her  fingers,  to 
that  crimsoned  her 

m  these  exquisite 
moisello's  album  1''' 
poke,  gave  the  book 
hod  been  looking 
moud.  "You  will 
g  little  things  well 

iautiful  impromptu 
— ,"  said  Elizabeth, 
from  her  confusion, 
Philip  as  calmly 


er 


?htle88  words  of  his 
he  fountain  of  her 
expressive  1  It  illus- 
amartine's  poem,  Ze 

nother  by  M.C , 

am])'a  Petite  Violette. 
a  prima,  as  artists 
them,  Philip,  with  a 
ir  poems." 

be  album,  and  after 
ments  industriously 

Elizabeth   with  a 
I.     He  had  carefully 

cross-bones,  under 
in,  A  vise  la  Jin. 
could  1 .  'U  ruin  my 

horror!"  she  said, 
proachfully ;  "  see, 
thing  he  has  made." 
of  genius,"  observed 
ig  the  album  to  his 
ii  took  it  and  laid 
Lided  face.  It  was 
of  Philip's,  but  it 
mpression  upon  her 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


tu 


Rnymond  walked  home  with  Claude. 
It  v/uH  ii  cloudless  moonlit  night ;  and 
as  tbcy  Biiuntercd  slowly  down  the  Rue 
dc  Ilivoli  tuwuid  tho  Rue  St.  Roch,  Philip 
said  to  his  companion,  "  By  Jovo  I  I  be- 
lieve Elizabeth  loves  me,  after  all.  Did 
you  notice  her  agitation  when  I  re- 
minded her  of  our  yotmg  days  1 " 

"Yes,  I  did,"  replied  Claude,  "and  I 

Eitied  her ;  you  were  cruel  to  play  upon 
er  feeling  in  that  way ;  she  is  a  noble, 
beautiful  girl." 

"  She  has  made  mo  suffer  enough," 
continued  Raymond,  reflectively.  "  It  is 
just  my  luck,  now,  when  I  don't  care  for 
her  love,  she  is  quite  ready  to  give  it  to 
,me.  I  am  always  working  at  cross-pur- 
poses in  aflnirs  of  the  heart.  Heaven 
only  knows  how  it  will  end  with  La 
Marquise.  I  adore  her,  and  she  plays 
with  me  as  a  cat  does  with  a  mouse." 

"  Leave  your  folly  with  La  Marquise," 
said  Claude,  gravely,  "  and  devote  your- 
self to  tho  woman  you  really  love,  and 
who  really  loves  you." 

"  If  I  could  believe  it,  if  I  was  only 
sure,"  returned  Philip,  doubtfully.  "  I 
am  never  so  happy  anywhere  nor  with 
any  person  as  I  am  with  Elizabeth,  I 
mean  so  sincerely  happy,  and  yet  I  am 
not  sure  now  whether  I  love  her  or  not. 
How  charming  Lady  Courtnay  was  this 
evening !  I  never  saw  her  so  beautiful 
before,  i/bn  ami,  you  work  a  spell 
wherever  you  go.  Hush  !  look  yonder 
in  the  shadow  of  the  buildings  on  the 
other  side,"  said  Raymond,  suddenly 
lowering  his  voice,  "  those  two  men  are 
following  ua" 

"  Following  us,"  repeated  Claude  as 
they  turned  into  the  Rue  St.  Roch, "  for 
what  reason  1 " 

"Remember  what  I  told  you  the 
other  day ;  they  are  spies  of  the  secret 
police,  who  are  tracking  you ;  your  free- 
dom of  expression  has  become  obnoxious 
to  the  government ;  your  articles  in  the 
Jievue  have  attracted  too  much  atten- 
tion in  the  wrong  quarter.  Take  care, 
or  you  will  find  that  personal  liberty  is 
not  respected  under  this  regime  any 
more  than  is  liberty  of  opinion." 

"  In  spite  of  all  I  shall  be  true  to  my 
principles ;  I  cannot  be  a  slave  to  the 
fear  of  evil  consequences,"  returned 
Claude,  as  he  shook  hands  with  his 
friend  at  his  door. 


Long  after  he  entered  his  room  he 
had  not  thought  of  retiring,  he  was  too 
happy  to  sleep.  The  influence  of  C6- 
leuto's  presence  still  filled  his  heart.  Ho 
sat  by  his  window  and  looked  out  into 
the  silent  street,  where  the  white  moon- 
light lay  unbroken  on  the  deserted 
pavement  that  a  few  hours  boforo 
had  resounded  with  hurrying  footsteps. 
"  Tho  day  has  been  without  clouds," 
he  thought,  "  and  the  night  is  so- 
reno ;  ray  soul  is  filled  with  one  object 
that  love  invests  with  every  imagiuublo 
charm.  To  love  and  to  be  loved  is 
surely  the  greatest  bliss  one  can  experi- 
ence amid  tho  sorrows  and  disappoint- 
ments of  life  ;  it  is  tho  only  joy  loft  to 
us  of  the  paradise  that  was  designed  for 
our  inheritance.  To-night  I  am  happy, 
I  might  say  too  happy.  Is  it  not  natu- 
ral that  I  should  be  filled  with  rapture, 
after  such  a  blessed  hour  1  My  whole 
being  is  full  of  gratitude  to  God.  I  ask 
for  nothing  more  than  tho  sight  of  her 
face,  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  muto 
and  unconscious  confession  of  her  meek 
eyes.  She  loves  me,  I  have  no  longer  any 
doubt  that  adorable  woman  loves  me 
now  as  she  loved  me  in  those  sweet 
days  of  tender  hope,  —  ay,  and  even  bet- 
ter, for  suffering  has  softened  and  puri- 
fied her  passion  from  all  earthly  desires ; 
she  loves  me  with  an  affection  angelio 
and  holy,  and  she  understands  that  my 
pity,  tenderness,  and  devotion  are  as 
pure  as  her  love ;  our  souls  are  united  ; 
our  thoughts,  our  aspirations,  our  inten- 
tions, are  blended  into  one  sweet  senti- 
ment ;  at  last  we  have  reached  that  state 
where  we  can  look  at  the  past  without 
regret,  the  present  without  desire,  and 
the  future  without  fear.  0  my  angel, 
I  will  never  cause  thee  a  sorrow !  I 
will  strive  to  lighten  thy  burden.  I 
will  live  but  to  make  thee  happy.  I  will 
banish  every  thought  of  self  from  my 
heart.  I  will  crucify  my  nature,  I  will 
purify  my  soul,  that  I  may  be  \^orthr 
thy  saintly  love."  Such  were  the  feel- 
ings and  intentions  that  formed  the 
greater  part  of  his  revery ;  his  mind  was 
aflame  with  pure  and  earnest  desire  for 
the  welfare  of  his  beloved,  there  was 
only  the  single  purpose  before  him  of 
making  tho  woman  he  worshipped  hap- 
pier by  some  sacrifice,  some  self-denial, 
when  suddenly  these  questions  seemed 


120 


A  CROWN  FROM  TBE  SPEAR. 


to  be  engraved  upon  his  conscience  by  a 
divine  finger :  Has  man  the  right  to 
seek  temptation  in  order  to  prove  his 
moral  strengtli  1  If  he  Tails  into  sin,  who 
will  pardon  him  1  By  doing  so,  is  ho 
not  guilty  of  wrong  toward  the  one  ho 
loves  1  "  O  my  just  and  pitiful  God  !  " 
he  cried,  clasping  his  hands  and  raising 
his  eyes  to  heaven,  "  do  not  press  this 
drop  of  sweetness  from  my  life  ;  permit 
me  to  live  for  her,  to  soften  a  little  the 
path  too  rugged  for  her  tender  feet." 


PART   FOURTH. 

THIS    AND    THAT. 

When  Madame  la  Marquise  entered 
her  room,  after  her  drive  with  Philip  in 
the  Bois,  she  threw  herself  into  a  chair 
wearily  and  dejectedly.  An  hour  be- 
fore she  had  been  looking  from  her  luxu- 
rious carriage  on  the  gayest  scene  im- 
aginable, her  face  beaming  with  smiles 
as  she  met  the  adoring  glances  of  her 
numerous  admirers,  who  followed  and 
envied  her  as  the  most  successful  wo- 
man, in  every  respect,  among  the  beau 
taonde  of  Paris.  Now  she  sat  alone  in 
the  silence  of  her  room,  her  jewelled 
hands  clasped  over  the  rich  velvet  and 
lace  that  rose  and  fell  heavily  above  her 
throbbing  heart,  her  eyes  downcast  and 
suffused  with  tears,  the  lines  of  her 
lovely  mouth  fixed  in  melancholy  curves, 
and  a  shadow  of  regret  and  dissatisfac- 
tion resting  upon  her  fair  face.  An 
hour  before  she  was  a  creature  to  be  en- 
vied ;  now  she  was  to  be  pitied,  for  her 
air  of  depression,  and  her  sad  eyes  that 
seemed  to  be  searching  vacancy  for  some 
impossibility,  revealed  a  mental  inquie- 
tude and  a  profound  discouragement. 
There  was  still  an  hour  to  hang  heavily 
before  it  would  be  time  to  dress  for  din- 
ner,—  an  hour  that  offered  her  no 
amusement,  no  excitement.  She  might 
have  looked  over  her  jewels,  her  dresses, 
her  lac«s,  with  her  maid ;  she  might  have 
sat  before  her  mirror  in  her  dressing- 
room,  admiring  her  marvellous  beauty, 
while  she  adorned  herself  in  some  new 
finery ;  but  she  was  not  a  woman  to  find 
diversion  in  such  fi-ivolities,  there  must 
be  something  of  life,  of  human  passion, 


of  Joy  and  sorrow,  emotion,  strife,  desire, 
and  design,  to  draw  away  her  thoughts 
from  their  interior  abstraction.  There- 
fore, instead  of  retiring  to  her  dress- 
ing-room, she  seated  herself  at  the  win- 
dow, and  looked  out  into  the  life  of  the 
Rue  St.  Dominique.  There  were  lag- 
ging, weary,  aimless  passers,  who  came 
from  nowhere,  and  went  to  no  particular 
destination ;  there  were  rapid,  feverish, 
hurried  souls  impelled  on  by  hope  or 
desire;  there  were  indolent,  languid 
bounties,  who  rolled  dreamily  along  in 
their  dainty  equipages,  scarce  raising 
their  white  lids  from  their  carmine- 
tinted  cheeks;  there  were  boisterous, 
careless,  dissipated  students  from  the 
Sorbonne,  who  walked  with  a  rollicking' 
air  arm  in  arm  with  their  favorite  ffri- 
lettet,  whose  painted  faces  and  uncovered 
heads  were  raised  with  a  boldness  that 
was  not  innocence;  there  were  nurses 
with  round,  healthy  cheeks,  who  carried 
pale  children  in  their  arms,  frail  flowers 
that  pined  and  faded  in  that  unhealthy 
quarter ;  there  were  little  boys  and  girls 
who  walked  together  from  school,  hand 
in  hand,  tlieir  faces  almost  touching  in 
the  irrepressible  eagerness  of  their  inno- 
cent discourse,  —  little  happy  creatures, 
whose  white,  tender  feet  had  never  been 
wounded  by  the  thorns  of  life ;  behind 
them  came  a  dark,  stout  laundress  car- 
i^ing  aloft  her  pole,  hung  with  stiffly 
starched  dresses  that  looked  like  head- 
less human  beings  dangling  by  the  neck, 
while  she  sang  in  a  resonant  voice  a  song 
of  Brittany,  articulating  the  monoto- 
nous rhythm  with  the  clap,  clap  of  her 
wooden  shoes.  On  the  opposite  trottoir 
some  boys  were  haggling  for  chestnuts 
with  an  old  blind  woman,  one  little  ras- 
cal attracting  her  attention,  while  the 
other  fished  a  handful  from  her  scantily 
filled  troy.  The  eyes  of  La  Marquise 
flashed  at  the  audacious  dishonesty  of 
the  youthful  brigand,  a  hot  flush  passed 
over  her  face,  and  she  partially  -  arose, 
then  sank  back  in  her  seat  with  a  weary 
sigh.  A  dirty  moid  of  all  work,  with 
bare  red  arms,  dragged  a  reluctant,  ciy- 
ing  child  along  by  the  collar,  now  and 
then  administering  a  smart  blow  to 
quicken  its  lagging  steps.  "  Mon  Dteu  !  " 
she  said  fiercely,  "  how  cruel  is  the  hu- 
man heart  That  beastly  woman  secma 
to  rejoice  in  her  power  over  the  fccblo 


Iiotion,  strife,  desire, 
I  away  her  thoughts 
Ibstraction.     Thoro- 
|iring  to  hor  drcss- 
hcrsclf  nt  the  win- 
into  the  life  of  the 
There   were  lag- 
passers,  who  camo 
[rent  to  no  particular 
^rere  lapld,  feverish, 
pled  on  by  hope  or 
indolent,   languid 
dreamily  along  in 
■ages,  scarce   raising 
Trom  their  camiine- 
re  were   boisterous, 
students  from   tho 
ed  with  a  rollicking 
1  their  favorite  gri- 
faccs  and  uncovered 
with  a  boldness  that 
;  there  were  nurses 
r  cheeks,  who  carried 
)ir  arms,  frail  flowers 
3d  in  that  unhealthy 
e  little  boys  and  girls 
sr  from  school,  hand 
i  almost  touching  in 
gcmess  of  their  iuno- 
ittle  happy  creatures, 
r  feet  hod  never  been 
loms  of  life  ;  behind 
stout  laundress  car- 
ile,  hung  with  stiffly 
at  looked  like  head- 
langling  by  tho  neck, 
resonant  voice  a  song 
ulating  the  monoto- 
the  clap,  clap  of  her 
the  opposite  trottoir 
aggling  for  chestnuts 
roman,  one  little  ras- 
attention,  while  the 
Iful  from  her  scantily 
syes  of  La  Marquise 
«iou8  dishonesty  of 
id,  a  hot  flush  passed 
she  partially '  arose, 
ler  seat  with  a  weary 
id  of  all  work,  with 
ged  a  reluctant,  cry- 
the  collar,  now  and 
:  a  smart    blow  to 
iteps.  "MonDtettl" 
low  cruel  is  tho  hu- 
)ea8tly  woman  secmn 
wer  over  tho  focblo 


A  GROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


121 


little  thing.  /  should  like  to  deal  stroke 
for  stroke  upon  her  broad  shouldent." 
Presently  thu  mournful  creaking  of  an 
organ,  accompanied  with  a  shrill,  plain- 
tive huiiiiin  voice,  fell  on  her  ear.  She 
loaned  Ibrwurd  and  looked  out.  An  old 
man  came  slowly  down  the  street,  grind- 
ing and  singing,  while  a  little  shaggy 
black  goat  trotted  by  his  side.  Just 
then  a  hearso  rattled  along  with  its 
sombre  plumes  dancing,  and  its  long 
fringes  waving  in  a  fantastic  manner, 
while  tho  driver  leaned  over  to  nod  and 
smile  at  a  young  maid  who  loimgod 
at  a  porte-cochh-e ;  tho  horses  trotted 
lightly,  and  the  wheels  clattered  care- 
lessly, as  though  they  wore  conscious 
that  they  had  safely  deposited  a  sod  and 
useless  burden  in  Pdro  la  Chaise.  It 
passed  out  of  sight  as  a  haggard,  wild- 
eyed  boy  flew  around  a  comer  with  his 
hands  full  of  turnips,  closely  pursued  by 
a  gendarme.  "  Poor,  famished  wretch  ! " 
said  La  Marquise,  watching  the  fugitive 
with  eager  attention.  "  He  has  stolen 
them  to  eat,  and  that  fat,  well-fed  brute 
will  take  them  from  him,  and  send  him 
to  the  Madclonnettes  for  six  months. 
0, 1  hoped  he  would  escape ! "  she  sighed, 
as  the  officer  clutched  the  boy  by  the 
shoulder  and  brought  him  up  suddenly, 
trembling  with  fear  and  exhaustion. 
"Ah,  he  deserves  to  be  struck  with 
palsy  where  ho  stands,  the  unfeeling 
monster,  he  deserves  it !  —  Justin,  Jus- 
tin," she  called  to  a  servant  who  stood 
near  the  door,  watching  her  furtively, 
"  go  into  the  street  and  give  to  the  offi- 
cer who  is  dragging  that  starving  boy 
to  prison  fifty  francs  to  release  htm." 
And  she  threw  her  purse  to  the  man  as 
she  spoke.  "  Do  you  understand  1  Give 
the  officer  fifty,  and  after  he  has  gone, 
give  the  boy  ten  to  buy  him  some  food." 
Justin  took  the  purse,  merely  saying 
with  a  low  bow,  "I  understand,  ma- 
dame,  I  understand."  He  was  too  well 
accustomed  to  his  mistress's  eccentrici- 
ties to  even  look  surprised.  Again  she 
heard  the  grating  of  the  organ,  and 
looking  down  into  the  street  she  saw 
that  the  old  man  with  his  goat  had 
stopped  under  her  window ;  a  number 
of  children  and  maids  had  gathered 
around  him,  charmed  with  the  cunning 
tricks  of  the  little  animal.  It  walked 
ou  its  hind  legs,  and  bowed  and  courte- 


siod  and  danced,  whirling  around  swiftly 
with  its  furcfeot  over  its  nose.  La 
Marquise  leaned  forward  on  tho  window- 
sill,  and  watched  with  parted  lips  nnd 
wide-open  eyes  every  movement.  They 
seemed  to  awukcn  sonie  memory,  per- 
haps of  innocent  happy  childhood,  for 
tears  trembled  on  her  lashes,  and  she 
sighed  heavily  more  than  once.  When 
the  goat  had  finished  his  little  reper- 
toire of  accomplishments,  the  old  man 
began  to  sing,  in  a  broken,  mournful 
voice,  Le  Rucher  de  St.  Malo ;  und 
Madame  la  Marquise,  seeming  to  forget 
that  she  was  a  lady  of  the  Faubourg 
St.  Germain,  repeated  with  a  drouniy 
voice  tho  words  that  the  old  man  sang, 
while  she  beat  an  accompaniment  on 
the  sill  with  her  white  fingers :  — 

"  M.  Ducquais,  me  dit  Pierre, 
Veut-tu  venir  avec  moi  ?  • 

Tu  sens  homme  do  guerre  j 

Monteras  la  flotte  du  roi, 

St  tu  verras  lea  climata 
la  t£te  des  soldata.  ' 

Non,  non,  je  preAre, 
Le  toit  de  ma  mh-e  ^ 

Le  rocher  de  St.  Malo, 
Qiie  Ton  volt  de  loin  sur  I'ean." 

When  the  last  strain  died  away,  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
sobbed  passionately  for  a  moment ;  then 
with  a  sudden  impatient  movement  she 
brushed  away  the  tears,  and,  folding  her 
arms  proudly,  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
while  she  seemed  to  be  debating  some 
question  with  herself.  Her  indecision 
lasted  for  an  instant  only,  for  she  called 
again  in  a  <;lear,  haughty  voice,  "  Justin, 
Justin." 

Again  the  servant  appeared ;  he  had 
l)een  watching  her  through  the  folds  of 
the  curtain,  and  his  thin,  grave  face 
was  troubled.  "  I  wish  to  speak  to 
that  man  who  is  singing  below ;  go  and 
bring  him  up." 

"  What,  madame  !  that  dirty  beg- 
gar 1" 

"Yes,  that  dirty  beggar,"  with  an 
imperative  wave  of  her  hand  toward 
the  door  as  Justin  hesitated ;  "  go 
quickly." 

A  moment  after  the  old  man  stood 
timidly  on  the  threshold  with  the  goat 
clasped  in  his  arms,  looking  with  amaze- 
ment at  the  splendor  of  the  room. 

"Come  in,  come  in,  my  good  man, 
don't  be  afraid,"  said  La  Marquise,  ad- 


122 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPKAR. 


vancing  townrd  hor  astoniHlicd  giiost. 
"  I  Hhould  liko  to  aue  tlio  gout.  It  u 
very  intvlligont  and  pretty.  You  rnny 
go,  JuHtiii,"  turning  8t>vcri-ly  to  thu  8ur- 
vnnt,  who  lingered  neur  licr,  rogurding 
thu  Htninger  witlicuriuHJty  and  diHiike,  — 
'*  you  Diuy  go,  and  cloiiu  tho  door  after 
you." 

Tho  old  nmu  looked  first  at  tho  rich 
carpet,  and  then  at  hiii  coante,  dirty 
HhocH,  and  stood  trembling  und  confused 
before  her. 

"  Wlmt  do  you  call  your  goat  ? "  she 
inquired  gently,  wishing  to  put  the 
frightened  creature  at  his  ease,  while 
she  laid  her  hand  on  the  shaggy  head 
of  the  little  animal. 

"Aim^o,"  replied  tho  man  without 
raising  his  eyes. 

"  Aini«;e,"  she  repeated  with  a  gnsp, 
"  that  is  a  singulai  n>i\uo  for  a  gout ; 
why  did  you  give  it  thnr.  name  1 " 

"  I  named  it  for  a  litllo  girl  wo  lost ; 
alio  played  with  it  when  it  was  a  kid, 
and  when  wo  had  tho  child  no  longer 
wc  called  the  goat  by  her  nomo." 

"  How  did  you  lose  tho  child  1 " 

"  She  was  stolen,  wo  never  knew  by 
whom ;  my  wife  left  her  in  the  house 
nlonc,  and  when  she  returned  tho  little 
girl  wr.i  gone." 

"  Wt  H  iho  your  child  I " 

"  No,  madame,  she  was  an  orphan ; 
her  father  was  a  convict ;  we  took  her 
when  she  was  a  baby,  and  loved  her 
like  our  own ;  we  lost  all  wc  had,  ma- 
dame, and  she  filled  a  littlo  their  place. 
She  was  pretty  and  so  clever,  O,  she  was 
too  clever  for -her  age,  and  we  grew  so 
fond  of  her;  then  she  was  stolen,  and 
wo  never  saw  her  again."  The  old 
man's  voice  was  broken,  and  the  tears 
trickled  down  his  furrowed  face  and 
dropped  one  by  ouo  on  the  head  of  the 
goat  that  had  fallen  asleep  in  his 
arms. 

"What  brought  you  to  such  pover- 
ty 1 "  inquired  La  Marquise  in  a  choked 
voice,  while  she  clasped  her  hands 
tightly  over  her  heart. 

"  After  we  lost  tho  child  everything 
vent  badly ;  the  animals  died,  and  my 
poor  wife  took  the  fever,  and  I  was  left 
alone ;  then  I  broke  my  arm,  and  I  could 
not  till  the  little  piece  of  land,  and  so  it 
woB  taken  away  and  I  hod  nothing  to 
live  for ;  the  old  place  was  ruined  for  me, 


and  I -wandered  almut  fVom  one  town  to 
another,  until  at  lust  I  canio  hero.  For 
more  than  twenty  years,  maduinu,  my 
only  companion  and  fViend  has  been  my 
goat  that  tho  child  Aimcu  played  with  ; 
she  is  very  intelligent,  almost  like  a  hu- 
nuin  Ijoing,"  he  said,  looking  n*  the  littlo 
animal  fondly  ;  "  but  1  cun't  keep  her 
nuich  longer,  she  is  old,  very  old  now, 
und  quite  weak,  and  would  liko  to  sleep 
tho  most  of  tho  time,  so  1  fear  1  :  liidl 
soon  lose  her.  I  don't  know  how  1  kIiiiII 
live  without  her,  for  no  one  would  listen 
to  my  songs  if  Aim^c's  tricks  <lid  not 
attract  them  first.  With  her  I  niimngo 
(o  pick  up  sous  enough  to  kccj)  us  from 
starving." 

"  Have  no  fears,  my  good  roan,  you 
shall  not  want  for  bread  if  you  do  lose 
tho  poor  goat,"  said  La  Marquise,  in  a 
quick,  sharp  voice,  that  hud  more  dis- 
tress in  it  than  even  tho  old  nuui's 
trembling  tones,  us  she  turned  toward 
an  escritoire  and  took  from  it  a  roll  of 
notes.  "  Here  is  enough  money  to  jjay 
your  way  back  to  your  old  home,  nnd 
keep  you  there  in  comfort  for  a  long 
time.  Take  it,  take  it,  and  don't  look 
at  it  now,"  she  cried,  prcsamg  it  impet- 
uously into  his  hand,  while  he  drew 
back  in  astonishment  that  was  almost 
fear.  "  It  is  a  great  deal  more  than 
you  have  ever  had  before  ;  it  will  keep 
you  fVom  want.  Don't  thank  mo.  I 
will  not  havo  your  thanks.  Put  the 
money  in  a  safe  place  whero  no  one  wdl 
steal  it,  and  go,  go  quickly.  It  is  a 
pleasure  for  me  to  give  it  to  you  ;  it  is 
a  kindness  for  you  to  take  it.  Do  not 
thank  mo,  go,  go"  And  she  hurried 
the  bewildered  old  man  toward  the 
door  with  such  haste  that  ho  could  not 
collect  his  senses  so  as  to  be  able  to 
utter  a  word.  When  he  had  gone,  and 
she  found  herself  alone,  she  threw  her 
head  bock  and  clasped  her  hands  over 
her  face  like  one  in  great  distress ;  and 
there  was  something  tragic  in  her  at- 
titude and  voice  r.s  she  cried,  "  Mon 
Dieu!  there  are  some  bom  to  blight 
and  crush  those  who  havo  heaped  ben- 
efits upon  them."  Then  she  paced  the 
floor  rapidly,  her  face  paling  and  flush- 
ing, while  the  dilated  nostrils,  trembling 
lips,  and  restless  eyes  showed  that  she 
was  laboring  under  some  powerful  emo- 
tion.    A  littlo   rustling  sound  at  tho 


imfi^im^mm- 


)ut  from  one  town  to 
it  I  cunio  hero.  For 
yoan,  inuduinc,  my 
'  friond  Iiuh  Iiucii  my 
Aim^c  played  with ; 
fjiit,  nImoHt  like  ii  liu- 
I,  lookiii)(n»  the  littlo 
|)Ut  I  cun't  koop  hur 
Is  old,  vciy  (lid  now, 
Id  would  like  to  hlt'cp 
10,  BO  I  fonr  I  .  Iii>|| 
Jm't  know  how  1  kIimM 
Jtrno  one  would  listen 
(im^c's  trickH  did  not 
With  hor  I  nmnngo 
>ugh  to  keep  U8  from 

I,  my  pood  man,  you 
brcnd  if  you  do  lose 
id  La  MnrquiHO,  in  a 
thnt  hud  moro  dis- 
oven   tho   old   num's 
8  shu  turned  toward 
ook  from  it  a  roll  of 
enough  money  to  jiny 
your  old  homo,  nnd 
1  comfort  for  a  long 
ko  it,  and  don't  look 
cd,  prcHsmg  it  impet- 
mnd,  while   he  drew 
lent  that  was  almost 
reut  deal  more  than 
d  before  ;  it  will  keep 
Don't  thank  mo.     I 
ur  thanks.     Put  the 
ace  where  no  one  will 
go  quickly.     It  is  a 
I  give  it  to  you ;  it  is 
I  to  take  it.     Do  not 
"     And  she  hurried 
Id   man  toward    the 
ste  that  ho  could  not 
so  as  to  ho  able  to 
hen  he  had  gone,  and 
alone,  she  threw  her 
isped  her  hands  over 
n  great  distress ;  and 
ing  tragic  in  her  at- 
P.8  she  cried,  "  Afon 
some  bom  to  blight 
ho  have  heaped  hen- 
Then  she  paced  the 
Pace  paling  and  flush- 
ed nostrils,  trembling 
lyes  showed  that  she 
•  some  powerful  crao- 
iStling  sound  at  tho 


A   r  lOWN  PRO      THE  8PBAR. 


il 


closed  door  attmotod  hor  attention 
Shu  paused  Iraforu  it,  and  Hhook  her 
head  significantly,  wliilu  hor  white 
tooth  sniippcd  Hhiirply  together,  and 
hor  hands  sinoto  each  other  with  a 
cruel  ferocity.  "  Ho  is  there  again  lis- 
tcniiig."  And  she  fixed  hor  gleaming 
eyes  on  tho  door  liko  an  enraged  tiger 
about  to  spring.  "  Ungrateful,  miser- 
able spy,  ho  watches  me  as  if  ho  wero 
]>aid  lor  it.  Ala  foil  one  would  think 
ito  had  taken  a  contract  to  listen. 
Shall  I  open  tho  door  and  strike  iiis 
head  oft'  at  a  blow  1  Coward,  l)east,  to 
daro  to  do  such  a  thing.  I  will  tuni 
hiin  from  mv  house,  he  shall  not  tor- 
ture me  with  his  presence."  Then  a 
sickly  smile  stole  over  her  face,  and 
her  hands  foil  heavily.  "  No,  no,"  sho 
added,  iu  slow,  discouraged  tones,  "  it 
is  no  use,  ho  is  my  skeleton,  my  bite 
tioir ;  ho  would  torment  mo  the  same 
wherever  he  was.  I  may  as  well  sup- 
port him  here."  And  with  an  irresolute 
and  weary  air  she  turned  toward  hor 
dressing-room. 

An  hour  after  La  Marquise  stood  iu 
the  library  before  the  glowing  tire,  her 
elbow  resting  on  the  velvet  cover  of 
the  mantle,  hor  forehead  pressed  into 
her  open  palm,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  restless  flames,  that  danced  and 
fliokorod,  throwing  fantastic  lights  and 
shades  upon  her  face  and  dress.  It 
was  the  same  hour,  in  fact  the  sarao 
moment,  when  Claude  stood  with  Ce- 
leste and  Elizabeth  in  tho  salon  in  the 
Uuu  Castigliono,  trying  to  subdue  the 
imperious  demands  of  his  heart ;  and 
La  Marquiso,  alone  in  the  twilight,  was 
thinking  of  him,  wondering  where  he 
was,  in  whose  society,  and  what  was 
the  subject  of  his  thoughts  at  that  mo- 
ment. Had  hia  memory  turned  to  her 
since  he  parted  from  her  so  abruptly 
the  previous  evening  1  Had  ho  desired 
to  see  her  again  1  Should  she  see  him 
soon,  and  when  and  where  1  Philip 
had  told  her  that  his  friend  never  went 
to  the  opera,  never  went  into  society, 
never  rode  in  the  Bois  during  tho  fash- 
ionable promenade ;  how,  then,  could 
she  see  him  1  Her  need  to  speak  with 
him  again  was  imperative.  Many 
things  that  she  had  intended  to  say 
to  him  in  the  exoitement  of  that  short 
interview  had  passed  from  her  mind, 


,    '<!   hIk  'l4>d    that    iIm  \ 

liiilf   iiu|>i  tlu)    til  S^ic    ,        d 

hIic  IdhI  <  luA  t||p  ,y«WBHii>n  u^t/n 
his  liuii  liittt  tihi  md  ho|>ud  to 
leave.  ^"^  Cult  llfai  iie  hud  startled 
itiid  bowP  K  Ti  (I  liini,  <-<i<iiu  than  sho  hud 
attracted  uiid  churiiKHi  liiiii.  The  vast- 
ness  in  the  dissimilarity  of  their  nio* 
tivos,  aims,  and  desires  appalled  her. 
S!io  know  that  he  stood  fur  uIhivo  her 
in  tho  nobility  and  integrity  of  his 
nature ;  that  ho  could  not  stoop  to  her, 
and  alas  I  it  was  too  late  to  grow  up  to 
him  ;  there  was  a  line  of  duniiu'cution 
between  them,  over  which  she  could 
not  pass,  and  sho  understood  well  that 
all  her  personal  advantugus  wero  en- 
tirely worthless  to  such  a  soul  us  his. 
"  If  I  could  but  do  some  good  deed, 
something  to  win  his  approbation,  then 
I  might  hope  for  his  IViondship,  if 
nothing  more,"  sho  thought,  wliilu  she 
vexed  her  heart  and  brain  to  discover 
some  meaua  of  immolation,  some  chanco 
to  distinguish  lierself  in  a  manner 
worthy  of  his  approval.  While  sho 
was  absorbed  with  this  new  idea,  and 
intent  on  contemplating  tho  imaginary 
results,  the  door  oponod,  and  Monseign- 
our  the  Bishop  of  Itoueu  was  an- 
nounced. 

La  Marqui.ie  did  not  change  her 
position.  Holding  out  her  disengaged 
hand,  she  said  indifferently,  and  with  a 
little  impatience,  "  I  thought  you  had 
ruturncd  to  Rouen,  monscigneur." 

"  No,  although  I  intended  it,  I  found 
I  oould  not  leave  before  the  council 
adjourned,"  replied  the  Bishop,  seating 
himself  with  the  air  of  one  quito  at 
home. 

"  And  the  Archbishop,  is  ho  recover- 
ing from  his  indisposition  1 " 

"  Ho  is  worse.  I  have  been  sum- 
moned to  his  bedside." 

"You  will  go  1" 

"  Certainly,  by  the  first  train." 

"  If  he  dies,  you  will  bo  promoted  to 
his  Bocred  office  1 " 

"  It  is  what  I  have  worked  for.  I 
think  I  have  earned  it." 

"  Will  your  ambition  be  gratified 
theni" 

"  No,  I  must  go  a  step  higher." 

"And  theni" 

"  I  shall  be  content." 

"Without  remorse,  without  regret  1" 


124 


A  GROWN  VKOM  TnR  RPKAH. 


"  PortiRpa  not  without  irnrot ;  there 
is  tilwayi  rvgrut  taitiglod  with  our  hap- 
piuvtM,  thu  rc'grot  thiit  wo  did  not  rouuh 
It  iHHinor ;  hut  ronmrHO  is  punishrnuiit 
for  ^ruiit  hIii,  havo  I  doiio  aught  to 
merit  iti" 

"  I  think  you  havo,  monaoignour." 

"  Ah  I  vou  aro  nlwaya  aovrrc  ;  bo  my 
accuaor  tlion  ;  what  havo  I  dono  that 
ia  ao  hi'inoua  in  your  oatimation  1 " 

"  You  havo  trampled  upon  the  righta 
of  othora  ;  you  havo  not  cared  whom  you 
cruahod,  ao  you  conquered." 

"Uravii  churgcH,  said  tlio  Diahop, 
while  a  hot  flush  crimaoncd  hia  face ; 
"are  you  auro  you  aiicak  adviaodly, 
madunio  1 " 

"  I  am  Huro  I  apeak  the  truth.  Look 
back  and  aeo  if  there  arc  not  thinga  in 
your  past  that  will  not  bear  the  cloaeat 
Bcrutiny,"  replied  La  Marquiao,  fear- 
leaaly  and  sternly.  "  O  monsoigneur,  if 
you  are  about  to  fill  a  still  more  im- 
portant office  in  the  holy  Church,  ex- 
amine your  heart  and  see  if  there  are  in 
it  justice,  truth,  and  charity." 

"  You  are  a  severe  monitor,  madamo, 
but  I  will  remember  }'our  advice,  and 
strive  to  profit  by  it ;  now  allow  me  to 
give  you  a  little  counsel,  which  you  may 
find  useful  in  the  future.  Be  oareftd 
how  you  receive  M.  le  Comto  do  Cler- 
mont ;  ho  ia  suspected ;  he  is  a  Republi- 
can and  a  traitor,  and  ho  is  under  the 
turveillance  of  the  government.  Do  you 
understand  what  that  implies  1 " 

"  Yes,"  replied  La  Marquise,  turning 
pale  and  starting  from  her  indolent 
position,  —  "  yes,  I  underatond  that  it 
implies  punishment  for  daring  to  speak 
the  truth ;  the  truth  is  patii,  and  lies 
take  the  precedence ;  therefore  a  man 
must  be  silent,  or  lie  to  pamper  the 
iniquity,  injustice,  and  deception  of  this 
despotic  reign." 

"  Hush,  hush,  yon  talk  at  random. 
Agitators  and  would-be  regenerators, 
free-thinkers,  and  communists  are  trai- 
tors to  the  government,  and  should  be 
treated  aa  auch." 

"What  proof  is  there  that  M.  le 
Comte  do  Clermont  ia  connected  with 
either  of  the  parties  you  name  f " 

"  He  is  the  author  of  the  article  on 
Equity,  that  has  caused  such  indigna- 
tion from  all  who  are  lovers  of  order 
and  restraint.'' 


"  It  is  false,  he  is  n^f  tbo  author  of 
that  article,"  said  Lu  MmniuiMo,  fixing 
her  oycH  tipou  the  fwc  M'  the  HlHliop 
with  a  steady  gnzo  timt  dul  not  flinch, 
"  neither  is  ho  a  crtntributor  to  the 
Revue.  The  Nooret  poling  oro  at  faiilt, 
they  aro  on  the  wronK  t-iil ;  cannot  you 
convince  them  that  it  i$i     it " 

"  No,  for  I  am  not  (  jiu  vincod  myself, 
and  you  wore  just  advocating  truth, 
truth  uiulcr  all  clroumstanoen." 

La  Marcpiise  frowned  and  bit  hor 
lips,  and  tho  Dishop  looked  at  her  com- 
placently, feeling  that  he  had  cnmercd 
her  ;  and  perhaps  she  felt  so  toe,  for  she 
smiled  half  scomfUlly,  half  p«ttishlv, 
and  said,  "  0  monaoignour,  al\er  all, 
it  is  a  garment  that  one  at  retches 
to  fit  his  needs ;  cannot  you  accom- 
modate it  to  this  necessity  1" 

"  No,  for  it  is  not  my  necessity,  and 
I  am  not  generous  toward  other  peo- 
ple's." 

"There,  your  true  character  nhinea 
out  most  bcautifiiUy,  other  people's  ne- 
cessities do  not  trouble  you.  I  wonder," 
looking  at  him  sadly  and  reflectively, 
—  "I  wonder  when  tho  time  cornea 
that  you  shall  need  an  advocate,  a  me- 
diator, who  will  present  himself  on  your 
behalf  1  Perhaps  this  unhappy  young 
man  whom  you  are  dotermineil  to 
crush ;  he  has  tho  noble  soul  that  for- 
gets injuries." 

"  You  speak  as  though  you  believed 
I  had  some  personal  animosity  against 
M.  lo  Comte  do  Clermont." 

"  He  has  never  wronged  you,  and  yet 
you  hate  him,  and  you  will  strive  to 
ruin  him  utterly,  I  am  convinced  of 
it,"  said  La  Marquise,  with  stem  de- 
liberation ;  then  her  voice  softened  to  a 
sob,  and  she  added,  "  0  monscigneur,  if 
you  have  no  pity  for  him,  have  some 
for  those  who  suffer  with  him  ! " 

At  this  appeal,  tho  Bishop  rose  and 
paced  the  floor  in  agitation ;  his  face  was 
pale,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  a  lurid 
light,  while  his  fingers  twisted  convul- 
sively the  heavy  ehain  attached  to  his 
cross.  When  he  turned  his  back,  and 
walked  hurriedly  down  the  room,  La 
Marquise  clasped  her  hands,  and  raised 
her  eyes,  saying  with  a  gasp,  "  0  God, 
soften  his  heart  I "  Then  she  turned  and 
followed  him,  gliding  with  a  serpent- 
I  like  grace  over  the  rich  carpet,  the  soft 


r 


A  GROWN  FUUM  TU£  BPliIAR. 


t 


l«  nof  tho  author  of 

10  fiMO    .M'  tho  niNliop 
lo  th*t  Uul  not  fliiuh, 
In  contributor   to   tho 
^ct  polino  oro  at  fmiJt, 
ron«  \-y\\\  cannot  you 
|at  it  iss     1 1 " 
not  cjiuvincod  myaolf, 
|uit   advocating  troth, 
limiimitanceH." 
Ifrowncd   and   bit    hor 
lop  looked  at  her  com- 
that  ho  hod  cornered 
nhc  felt  10  toe,  for  hIio 
uftilly,  half  pottibhlv, 
nonsoignour,  alitor  all, 
t    that    one    ■trotchcit 
cannot  you  accom- 
a  necessity  1" 
not  my  necessity,  and 
ous  toward  other  peo- 

truc  character  ishinos 
illy,  other  people's  no- 
rouble  you.  I  wonder," 
Bftdly  and  reflectively, 
vhon  tho  timo  comes 
leed  on  advocate,  u  mo- 
prcscnt  himHolf  on  your 
«  this  unhappy  young 
u  are  detennine<l  to 
tie  noble  soul  that  for- 
ts though  you  believed 
ional  animosity  against 
]!lennont." 

r  wronged  you,  and  yet 
and  you  will  strive  to 
y,  I  am  convinced  of 
rquise,  with  stem  de- 
hor voice  softened  to  a 
ed,  "  0  monseigneur,  if 
y  for  him,  have  some 
ffer  with  him  ! " 
I,  the  Bishop  rose  and 
agitation  \  his  face  was 
es  were  full  of  a  lurid 
Bngers  twisted  convul- 
cbain  attached  to  his 
turned  his  back,  and 
'  down  the  room.  La 
her  hands,  and  raised 
with  a  gasp,  "  0  God, 
'  Then  she  turned  and 
iding  with  a  serpent- 
le  rich  carpet,  the  soft    . 


trailing  shoen  of  hor  droM  making  a 
shimmer  uf  light  utlur  liur.  Whun  she 
roiicliod  liim  hIio  liiid  hur  hand  on  his 
shouldur ;  tho  touch  won  light,  but  it 
m:ido  hiiu  shiver,  and  bonding  forward 
sho  looked  into  iiin  eyes  with  the  most 
porKUftsivo  uniili),  suying,  "  J/o«  pirt, 
you  iiuvu  novor  yet  rufiiwd  to  niuko  mo 
happy.  Vuu  know  whut  i  wish  ;  prom- 
iao  mo  tliiit  you  will  nut  denounce  him 
to  tho  govommunt ;  promise  mo  but 
that,  uiid  you  will  huvo  my  otomal 
grntitudo." 

The  Hishop  did  not  reply.  La  Mar- 
quiHO  still  continued  to  guze  into  his 
fuoo,  hor  very  soul  in  her  eyes.  For 
more  than  a  minute  they  stood  thus, 
oacli  trying  to  punotrato  into  thn  hid- 
den thoughts  of  tho  other.  Then  sho 
snid,  "You  will  not  promise  mot" 

"  I  cannot." 

"  You  cannot  1 "  Quicker  than  light- 
ning tho  hand  fell  from  his  shoulder, 
and  starting  away  from  him  sho  stood 
with  folded  arms  looking  at  him  steadi- 
ly, contempt  and  hato  plainly  written  on 
her  face ;  thou  raising  her  right  hand 
sho  pointed  to  tho  door,  saying  in  slow, 
deep  tones,  "  Oo,  Judas,  go  !  I  have  soon 
you  for  the  last  time.  Henceforth  there 
is  a  gulf  between  us  that  nothing  can 
bridge  over.  I  have  reached  the  crisis 
of  my  suffering;  there  will  be  a  day 
when  yours  will  also  arrive.  Then  may 
you  experience  my  pain  a  thousand 
times  intensified.    Go,  not  a  word,  go  ! " 

The  Bishop  slowly  retreated  toward 
the  door,  bowing  as  he  went  like  one 
leaving  the  presence  of  royalty.  His 
face  was  ghastly,  drops  of  sweat  stood 
on  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes  seemed 
flames  of  fire  devouring  the  face  of  Lti 
Marquise,  as  she  stood,  the  impersona- 
tion of  scorn  and  hate.  When  the  heavy 
curtain  fell  over  the  door  and  hid  him 
from  her  sight,  her  arms  dropped  help- 
lessly, and  she  sank  with  a  heart-break- 
ing sigh  into  the  nearest  chair.  "  It  is 
done,  it  is  done.  I  would  have  saved 
him,  but  I  could  not.  Judas !  Judas  I 
thou  wilt  suffer  a  terrible  agony  of 
remorse  when  thou  hast  completed 
thy  cruel  betrayal.  Thou  wilt  live  to 
look  upon  my  dead  face,  and  know  that 
thy  ambition,  thy  revenge,  thy  mer- 
ciless hate,  extinguished  its  light  for- 
ever." 


PART   FIFTH. 


IN      WHICH     BIH      MDWARD'S     MOTIVB     U 
OBVIOUS. 

"Good  morning,  my  dear  follow, 
good  inonjing,"  exclaimed  Hir  Edward, 
with  mure  thnu  usual  animation,  iih  he 
entered  Clnude'H  room  ii4)mo  two  months 
after  ho  had  dined  in  tho  Ituot'aHtiglionoi 
"  I  am  delighted  to  find  you  disenguged, 
tiH  I  have  called  on  tiie  moroHt  trifle  of 
buHineHH,  tlio  moii'tt  triflu  ;  lot  mo  luisuro 
you  that  I  won't  detain  you  five  min- 
utes." 

Claude  gave  a  chair  to  his  visitor, 
while  ho  said  cordially  that  ho  was 
<luito  at  his  service  for  as  long  a  time 
as  he  pleased  to  remain. 

"ThunkH,  thankti,  my  dear  follow; 
you  are  always  n  true  Frenchman,  you 
always  understand  how  to  place  people 
quite  at  their  ease ;  but  it 's  only  a 
matter  of  a  moment,  the  merest  trifle ; 
do  mo  the  favor,  my  good  fellow,  to 
lend  mo  throe  thousand  francs  fur  a  few 
days." 

"Certainly,  with  tho  greatest  pleas- 
ure," replied  Claudo,  heartily.  "  I  am 
most  happy  to  bo  able  to  servo  you  in 
any  way."  These  were  not  merely  the 
usual  complimontaiT  words  employed 
between  gentlemen  during  the  like  doli- 
cate  transactions.  When  he  said,  "  I  am 
happy  to  servo  you,"  he  meant  it,  for 
he  well  knew  in  that  way  he  was 
serving  Celeste,  though  indirectly. 

So  without  the  slightest  hesitation 
he  wrote  a  check  for  the  amount,  for 
which  Sir  Edward  with  the  most  busi- 
nesslike importance  returned  his  note, 
that  Claude  knew  to  be  as  worthless  as 
the  paper  on  which  it  was  written, 
saying  in  a  tone  of  assumed  indiflerenco, 
"  Thanks,  my  dear  fellow ;  not  at  all 
necessary  between  gentlemen,  but  still 
more  business-like,  moro  in  order,  in 
case  of  accident,  you  understand." 

Claude  assured  him  that  he  under- 
stood, and  quietly  laid  the  uoto  on  the 
check,  which  Sir  Edward,  without  ap- 
poioring  to  notice,  folded  together  and 
slipped  into  his  pocket.  "  Now  another 
little  matter,"  he  continued,  briskly. 
"  Monthelon  is  in  the  market,  to  be 
sold  next  week ;  a  perfectly  useless  lot 
of  property  to  me,  monsieur;  it  has 
actually  eaten  itself  up,  and  so  I  have 


ifr 


126 


'V 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR 


■tfewirXMvWnPi^ 


h 


determined  to  be  rid  of  it ;  not  the  least 
use  in  the  world  of  keeping  an  estate  like 
that  when  one  don't  live  on  it ;  I  believe 
it  joins  your  estate  of  Clermont  1" 
Claudo  winced ;  how  had  he  learned 
that.  If  he  knew  that,  did  he  not  also 
know  more  1  "  And  I  thought  you  might 
like  to  become  its  purchaser.  To  unite  it 
to  yours  would  increase  the  value  of 
both.  Think  of  it,  monsieur,  think  of 
it ;  it  would  make  a  fine  property." 

"  It  would  indeed,"  said  Claude.  "  I 
shall  consider  the  matter,  and  decide 
without  doubt  to  become  its  owner." 

Sir  Edward  saw  that  M.  lo  Comte, 
for  some  reason,  was  not  inclined  to  be 
expansive  on  the  subject ;  so  he  took  his 
hat,  shook  hands  cordially,  and  went 
away  humming  an  air  from  the  last 
opera  with  the  utmost  nonchalance, 
while  he  thought,  "  Another  little 
annoyance  over;  after  all,  it  is  not  so 
disagreeable  to  have  affairs  with  gentle- 
men. How  cleverly  he  returned  mo  my 
note !  I  wonder  if  he  suspected  it  was 
worthless.  Ha,  ha  !  he  is  either  very 
generous  or  very  stupid,  or  perhaps  it  is 
an  advance  ;  he  intends  to  ask  for  Eliza- 
beth, there 's  no  doubt  but  what  he  is 
fond  of  the  girl ;  and  if  he  wants  her  he 
shall  have  her.  In  that  way  Monthelon 
can  be  kept  in  the  family.  A  devilish 
clever  idea  of  mine  to  suggest  its  pur- 
chase before  he  proposed  for  her ;  more 
dignified  in  every  way,  and  in  the  end 
amounts  to  the  same.  One  may  as  well 
preserve  his  self-respect  when  he  loses 
nothing  bj'  it.  Three  thousand  fn\ncs, 
a  nice  little  sum  to  pay  my  tailor  and 
hostler ;  a  man  can't  get  clothes  and 
horses  without  money,  especially  after 
his  credit  is  gone,  and  there  is  no  use 
in  living  in  Paris  if  one  can't  dress  well, 
go  to  the  opera,  and  ride  in  the  Bois. 
It  is  a  mystery  to  me  how  those  two 
women  manage  the  house  and  dress  so 
M'ell  without  money.  I  suspect  Lady 
Courtnay  has  sold  her  jevels,  and  it  is 
just  as  well  if  she  has,  for  she  never 
wore  them,  her  beauty  is  not  of  the 
style  to  need  them.  So,  so,  ma  belle, 
you  thought  to  make  me  jealous  when 
you  told  me  of  the  youthful  amour 
between  M.  le  Comte  and  my  wife. 
Bah !  what  do  I  care  how  many  she 
loved  before  she  loved  'no  1  No,  no,  I  am 
not  such  a  fool  as  to  break  off  this  very 


usefiil  fViendship,  and  the  prospect  of 
an  excellent  alliance  for  Elizabeth,  be- 
cause of  sentimental  scruples.  Ah,  ma 
belle  Marquise,  you  are  very  clever,  but 
you  can't  deceive  me.  You  are  in  love 
with  M.  le  Comte  yourself,  and  you 
fear  he  still  has  some  penchant  for  Lady 
Courtnay.  I  am  not  in  tlie  least  dis- 
tressed by  your  revelations,  but  I  am 
surprised  that  my  wife  has  enough 
finesse  to  keep  her  former  connection  a 
secret.  How  in  ihe  name  of  heaven 
has  La  Marquise  leai-ncd  it  all  ?  She 
seems  to  know  more  about  M.  le  Comte 
than  any  one  else,  and  yet  she  has  seen 
him  less,  for  Baymond  says  he  avoids 
her.  When  I  spoke  of  Monthelon  being 
near  Clermont,  it  is  true  ho  changed  the 
subject  as  though  it  did  not  please  him. 
However,  I  sha'  n't  quarrel  with  him,  ho 
is  too  useful."  With  this  generous  con- 
clusion. Sir  Edward  turned  into  the  Bue 
de  Bivoli,  and  Siiuntered  along,  smiling 
and  bowing  to  his  fair  friends  with  a 
grace  and  suavity  that  younger  beaux 
admired  and  imitated. 

After  his  visitor  had  gone,  Claudo  sat 
for  a  long  time  in  deep  thought.  Mon- 
thelon was  to  be  sold,  and  he  then  and 
there  decided  to  become  its  purchaser. 
He  knew  that  it  had  long  before  been 
mortgaged  to  its  full  value,  but  he  had 
hoped  Sir  Edward  would  devise  some 
means  to  retain  it  in  his  possession  for 
the  sake  of  his  wife.  That  it  was  really 
in  the  market  showed  how  entire  was 
the  ruin  of  her  fortune,  and  how  utterly 
she  was  without  provision  for  the  fu- 
ture. The  property  that  the  poor  old 
manufacturer  had  toiled  so  hard  to 
accumulate  for  his  child  had  Iwcn  dimin- 
ished by  her  guardian,  and  the  remain- 
der squandered  by  her  profligate  hus- 
band, ond  now  nothing  remained  for  her 
and  the  equally  unfortinmto  Elizabeth 
but  poverty.  Claude  had  foreseen  that 
this  day  must  come,  some  two  months 
before,  when  he  had  made  the  unselfish 
resolve  to  bo  only  her  friend,  and  he 
had  then  decided  what  course  he  should 
pursue.  "Now,"  ho  said  to  himself, 
"  the  time  hafl  arrived  when  I  can  se- 
cure to  her  the  home  of  her  childhood, 
and  place  her  l^yond  want.  It  will  cost 
me  a  great  sacrifice,  not  less  than  the 
half  of  my  fortune,  but  it  shall  le 
done.      She  shall  have   Monthelon   so- 


and  the  prospect  of 
ce  for  Elizabeth,  he- 
al scruples.     Ah,  ma 
are  very  clever,  but 
e.     You  are  in  love 
e  yourself,  and   you 
ime  penchant  for  Lady 
not  in  tlie  least  dis- 
'evelatious,  but  I  am 
ly  v,ifo    has  enough 
Ir  former  connection  a 
khe  namo  of  heaven 
learned  it  all?    She 
•re  about  M.  le  Comte 
and  yet  she  has  seen 
mond  says  he  avoids 
ic  of  Monthelon  being 
is  true  ho  changed  tho 
it  did  not  please  him. 
t  quarrel  with  him,  ho 
'^itli  this  generous  con- 
d  turned  into  the  Rue 
untered  along,  smiling 
lis  fair  friends  with  a 
Y  that  younger  beaux 
ited. 

r  had  gone,  Claude  sat 
deep  thought.     Mon- 
3old,  and  he  then  and 
become  its  purchaser, 
had  long  before  been 
Pull  value,  but  he  had 
'd  would  devise  some 
t  in  his  possession  for 
fe.     That  it  was  leally 
owed  how  entire  was 
rtune,  and  how  utterly 
provision  for  the  fu- 
rty  that  the  poor  old 
i  toiled   so   hard    to 
I  child  had  Iwen  dirnin- 
lian,  and  tho  reniain- 
)y  her  profligate  bus- 
thing  remained  for  her 
infortunato  Elizabeth 
ude  had  foreseen  that 
no,  some  two  months 
xd  made  the  unselfish 
y  her  friend,  and  he 
what  course  he  should 
he  said   to  himself, 
■ived  when  I  can  se- 
me of  her  childhood, 
>nd  want.    It  will  cost 
:e,  not  less  than  the 
ne,   but   it   shall    l.o 
have  Monthelon   S3- 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


127 


cured  to  her  if  I  have  the  means  to  do 
it."  Tiiat  very  day  Claiido  took  the 
preliminary  steps  toward  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  plans,  but  fate  frus- 
trated tliom  in  a  way  ho  little  expected. 
During  tho  two  months  since  his  first 
visit  to  the  Rue  C'aatiglione,  scarcely  a 
day  had  passed  that  ho  had  not  seen 
Celeste ;  indeed,  tho  importunate  ad- 
vances of  Sir  Edward  rendered  formality 
almost  impossible,  even  if  his  own  in- 
clination had  opposed  a  close  acquaint- 
ance, and  how  much  more  easy  it  was 
to  drift  toward  sucli  an  intimacy  when 
every  feeling  was  in  its  favor.  They 
had  been  days  of  abnost  unalloyed  hap- 
piness to  both  him  and  Celeste  ;  neither 
dared  to  confess  it,  and  yet  they  both 
knew  it  well,  and  they  also  knew  that 
if  circumstances  should  put  an  end  to 
their  blissful  intercourse  they  should 
regret  it  forever.  Elizabeth  seemed  to 
have  resigned  herself  to  let  matters 
take  their  course;  her  confidence  in 
Claude  and  her  warm  friendship  for  him 
pleaded  powerfully  in  his  favor.  Sir 
Edward  had  known  nothing  until  the 
day  before  his  demand  upon  M.  le 
Comte's  generosity ;  then  La  Marquise 
had  enlightened  him,  to  tho  end  that  he 
might  disturb  the  influence  that  she 
had  discovered  Lady  Courtnay  still  ex- 
ercised over  her  former  lover,  but  she 
had  not  found  the  aid  she  expected  from 
a  jealous  husband.  Ho  had  received 
her  information  with  the  utmost  sancf 
/raid,  for  reasons  which  tho  first  part 
of  this  chapter  render  obvious,  so  noth- 
ing had  occurred  to  derange  their  se- 
rene relaJons. 

Ija  Marquise  had  not  made  tho  pro- 
gress in  her  friendship  with  Claude 
which  she  had  hoped  to  do,  although 
she  had  written  to  him,  after  her  stormy 
interview  with  the  Bishop,  and  request- 
ed him  in  the  most  earnest  manner  to 
avoid  expressing  his  liberal  opinions  too 
ofienly  if  he  valued  his  personal  safety 
and  freedom ;  yet  she  could  not  per- 
ceive that  it  had  advanced  her  cause  in 
the  least.  It  is  true  he  had  called  to 
thank  her  for  her  interest,  and  had  con- 
versed with  her  for  some  time  in  the 
most  winning  and  gracious  manner,  but 
he  had  persistently  disregarded  all  her 
delicate  overtures  of  a  more  intimate 
relation.     Ho  had  never  again  appeared 


at  her  Friday  soirees,  never  came  to  her 
box  at  tho  opera,  never  rode  by  lior  sido 
in  the  Bois;  in  short,  never  paid  her 
any  of  those  little  attentions  which  her 
heart  desired,  and  his  very  indifference 
fed  her  passion  and  fanned  it  to  a  flame. 
She  was  more  eccentric,  more  uncertain, 
more  cruel,  more  passionate  than  ever. 
There  were  whole  weeks  when  she  ab- 
sented herself  from  the  world  and  closed 
her  doors  to  all,  whole  days  and  nights 
when  she  wept  and  prayed  in  her  little 
oratory  alone,  refusing  food  until  she 
was  exhausted  with  fasting,  shutting 
out  tho  light  of  tho  sun  and  tho  sound 
of  human  voices,  until  her  own  thoughts 
and  her  restless,  feverish  soul  drove  her 
back  again  to  tho  world.  At  that  time 
tho  enemiiis  of  La  Marquise  said  she 
was  thinner,  that  her  form  was  losing 
its  roundness,  her  lines  their  undulating 
grace,  her  movements  their  serpent-like 
flexibility ;  that  her  face  was  too  pale, 
her  eyes  too  intense  in  their  expression, 
the  violet  shadows  around  them  too 
deep,  and  her  mouth  too  depressed  at 
the  comers ;  that  she  seemed  absorbed, 
dreamy,  restless,  expansive,  reticent, 
and  reckless,  by  turns ;  in  fact,  that  sho 
seemed  like  a  person  consumed  by  an 
inward  fire  which  she  kept  alive  by  her 
own  inconsistencies. 

Philip  was  in  despair  at  her  capricious 
conduct ;  ono  day  she  would  receive  him 
with  a  kindness  that  was  almost  tender, 
ancther  day  with  stern,  cold  indiffer- 
ence, and  again  with  evident  dislike. 
There  were  terribly  tempestuous  scenes 
between  them.  Philip  would  accuse, 
reproach,  and  implore.  La  Marquiso 
would  relent,  soften  to  penitence,  en- 
treat his  forgiveness  for  her  cruelty,  and 
be  all  gentleness,  all  sensibility,  until 
some  expression  of  love  and  confidence 
from  him  would  stai"tlo  her  from  hor 
tranquillity  into  an  insane  passion ;  then 
she  would  heap  all  sorts  of  invectives 
upon  him,  upbraiding,  taimting,  and  in- 
sulting, in  such  a  manner  that  he  would 
fly  from  her  presence  almost  terrified. 
If  he  liked  emotion  he  had  enough  of 
it,  ay,  and  too  much,  for  his  life  was  a 
torture,  a  constant  tumult  of  hope,  dis- 
appointment, and  desire.  He  did  noth- 
ing; every  occupation,  every  improve- 
ment, every  diversion,  was  neglected  that 
he  might  indulge  this  unreasonable  aud 


130 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


must  accept  the  offer  of  the  first  one 
who  will  take  you  without," 

"  0  papa,  I  implore  you  not  to  speak 
of  such  a  thing,"  cried  Elizabeth,  with 
real  distress.  "M.  le  Comte  de  Cler- 
mont does  not  care  for  me  in  the  least, 
he  has  not  the  least  intention  of  asking 
me  to  lie  his  wife." 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  Sir  Edward  in  tones 
of  cruel  deliberation,  "then  why  does 
he  come  here  so  often  t  Why  is  he  a  con- 
stant visitor,  if  it  is  not  for  the  pleasure 
of  my  daughter's  society  1 " 

Elizabeth  turned  crimson,  and  Celeste 
looked  like  one  ready  to  faint,  but 
neither  replied. 

"  O,  I  understand  !  Then  it  must  be 
that  he  is  still  in  love  with  my  wife, 
who,  I  have  been  told  by  strangers,  was 
once  affianced  to  him." 

Celeste  sprang  from  her  chair,  looked 
at  her  husband  for  a  moment  with  wild 
eyes,  clasped  her  hands  to  her  head, 
and  fell  back  in  the  arms  of  Elizabeth, 
fainting. 

Sir  Edward  was  terrified  at  the  scene 
ho  had  caused  by  his  ill-advised  re- 
marks ;  and  while  Elizabeth  hung  over 
his  wife,  trying  to  restore  her  to  con- 
sciousness, he  walked  tho  floor  wringing 
his  hands  and  reproaching  himself  for 
having  been  such  a  stupid  fool.  When 
at  last  Celeste  struggled  to  a  sitting  po- 
sition, and,  pushing  Elizabeth  away, 
held  out  her  hand  to  her  husband,  he 
came  forward  thoroughly  willing  to  meet 
her  advances,  saying,  "  For  God's  sake 
don't  make  a  fuss.  I  was  only  jesting. 
I  don't  care  in  the  least  that  you  kept 
it  from  me." 

"I  kept  it  from  you,"  said  Celeste, 
with  a  burst  of  tears,  "because  both 
Elizabeth  and  myself  thought  it  best  at 
first,  and  then  after  we  had  deceived 
you  we  were  afraid  to  acknowledge  it." 

"  I  did  it  for  the  best,  papa,"  said 
Elizabeth,  coming  forward  boldly  to 
the  support  of  her  friend.  "  It  was  my 
fault  that  Lady  Courtnay  did  not  tell 
you  at  once,  but  I  thought  we  should 
never  meet  M.  le  Comte  again." 

"  And  so  you  were  leagued  together 
against  me  t "  And  Sir  Edward  laughed 
heartily,  as  though  he  rather  enjoyed 
the  idea. 

"  Now,  papa,  that  yon  know  it,"  con- 
tinued Elizabeth,  gravely,  for  she  was 


shocked  and  somewhat  disgusted  at 
her  father's  hilarity,  "  I  hope  you  will 
give  M.  le  Comte  de  Clermont  to  un- 
derstand that  he  must  not  come  here 
again." 

"  Nonsense  1  what  do  you  moan,  you 
foolish  girl  1 "  inquired  the  Baro.iet,  with 
real  surprise,  for  he  did  not  in  the 
least  understand  his  daughter's  high- 
minded  view  of  the  subject.  "Tell 
him  not  to  come  here,  offend  M.  le 
Comte,  such  a  useful  friend  !  why,  you 
must  be  insane  ! " 

"  0  papa,  can't  you  understand  that 
it  —  that  under  the  circumstances  it  is 
not  quite  right ;  that  now  you  know  it, 
that  —  0  papa,  you  ought  to  know 
what  I  mean  without  my  being  obliged 
to  explain,"  cried  Elizabeth,  in  despera- 
tion at  the  insensibility  of  her  father. 

"  Explain,  explain,  there  is  nothing 
to  explain.  M.  le  Comte  was  once  en- 
gaged to  Lady  Courtnay.  Is  that  a 
reason  that  I  should  shut  my  door  in 
his  face  1  He  is  a  gentleman,  and  very 
useful ;  an  excellent  friend.  By  Jove  ! 
I  could  n't  offend  him,  if  I  had  cause  for 
it,  under  the  circumstances."  And  Sir 
Edward  thought  of  the  three  thousand 
francs  that  he  had  borrowed  a  few  days 
before,  and  of  the  indefinite  amounts  ho 
intended  to  borrow  in  the  futiire. 

Poor  Elizabeth  made  no  further  effort 
to  maintain  her  righteous  opinion. 
She  saw  that  her  father  was  determine'' 
to  disregard  eveiy  hint  and  ignore 
every  reason  for  closing  his  door 
against  M.  le  Comte  de  Clermont,  and 
she  was  too  weary  to  combat  it  any 
longer,  so  she  only  said,  laying  her 
hand  tenderly  on  Celeste's  head,  "  Well, 
papa,  you  know  all  now,  and' you  must 
never  blame  us,  whatever  may  happen 
in  the  future.  Only  if  you  have  any 
intention  of  trying  to  arrange  a  mar- 
riage between  M.  lo  Comte  and  myself, 
I  may  as  well  tell  you  now  that  it  is 
labor  lost,  and  that  I  shall  do  all  in  my 
power  to  discourage  it." 

"  You  and  Lady  Courtnay  will  both 
continue  to  treat  M.  le  Comte  in  tho 
same  friendly  manner  that  you  have 
done,"  said  Sir  Edward,  impressively. 
"  Remember  it  is  my  wish  ;  do  that,  and 
matters  will  arrange  themselves  satis- 
factorily to  all."  With  these  words  ho 
left  the  room,  feeling  that  ho  had  be- 


That  disgusted   at 
"  I  hope  you  will 
le  Clermont  to  un- 
|u8t  not  come  here 

do  you  moan,  you 
ed  the  Baroiet,  with 
\ie  did  not  in  the 
lis  daughter's  high- 
Ihe  subject.  "Tell 
[here,  offend  M.  le 
i\  friend  !  why,  you 

ou  understand  that 

circumstances  it  is 

lat  now  you  know  it, 

you  ought  to  know 

ut  my  being  obliged 

)lizabeth,  in  despera- 

)ility  of  her  father. 

lin,  there  is  nothing 

Comte  was  once  cn- 

!ourtnay.     Is  that  a 

»uld  shut  my  door  in 

I  gentleman,  and  very 

jnt  friend.     By  Jovo  ! 

him,  if  I  had  cause  for 

lumstances."     And  Sir 

of  the  three  thousand 

id  borrowed  a  few  days 

)  indefinite  amounts  ho 

>w  in  the  future. 

made  no  further  effort 

jr    righteous    opinion. 

father  was  determinp'' 

'eiy   hint   and    ignore 

or    closing     his    door 

nte  de  Clermont,  and 

ary  to  combat  it  any 

only  said,  laying  her 

.  Celeste's  head,  "  Well, 

all  now,  and"  you  must 

whatever  may  happen 

Only  if  you  have  any 

ing  to  arrange  a  mar- 

[.  To  Comte  and  myself, 

ell  you  now  that  it  is 

[lat  I  shall  do  all  in  my 

age  it." 

idy  Courtnay  will  both 
it  M.  le  Comte  in  the 
manner  that  you  have 
Edward,  impressively. 
1  my  wish  ;  do  that,  and 
■ange  themselves  satic- 
With  these  words  ho 
eeling  that  ho  had  bc- 


yifi'JTn 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


m 


haved  generously  and  judiciously,  and 
had  discharged  his  duty  toward  his 
wife  and  daughter  iit  the  most  ad- 
mirable manner. 

Celeste  had  feared  a  time  of  exposure 
might  come,  and  she  had  imagined  if  it 
ever  did  that  it  would  crush  her  ut- 
terly. She  had  said  to  herself  over  and 
over  that  she  never  could  survive  it, 
that  it  would  kill  her  at  once.  It  had 
been  the  sword  hanging  over  her  head 
by  a  single  hair,  the  skeleton  at  her 
feast,  the  imperative  voice  that  had 
disturbed  the  tranquillity  of  her  con- 
science ever  since  the  night  when  she 
had  been  presented  to  Cla^^de  at  the 
Hotel  Ventadour  by  her  unsuspecting 
husband.  Now  the  storm  had  come 
and  passed,  and  she  was  relieved,  and 
thankful  that  it  had  done  so  little 
damage.  She  had  expected  her  hus- 
band, at  the  discovery  of  such  a  gross 
deception,  would  crush  and  kill  her 
with  his  indignation ;  but,  instead,  he 
had  not  even  seemed  angry.  She  felt 
almost  like  worshipping  him  for  such 
unparalleled  kindness.  So  she  said  to 
Elizabeth,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "  I  am 
80  glad  it  is  over.  0  chirie,  how  good 
Sir  Edward  is  to  us  !  We  ought  to  love 
hira  very  much  for  his  indulgence  and 
gentleness ;  wo  deserved  to  be  pun- 
ished, and  ho  did  not  even  blame  us." 

"  llemembcr  it  always,  darling ;  a 
time  may  come  when  you  will  need  the 
memory  of  all  his  kindness  to  support 
you  under  trials  that  may  be  difficult 
to  endure,"  replied  Elizabeth,  sadly. 
Then  she  kissed  Celeste,  and  went  away 
to  her  room  to  brood  over  her  own 
Borrows  alone. 


PART  SIXTH. 

ONE    OF   THE    FORTUITODS    EVENTS    THAT 
•  WB    CALL    FATE. 

One  fine  morning  in  April,  and  a  few 
days  after  the  events  recorded  in  the 
last  chapter,  Claude  walked  down  the 
Rue  Castiglione.  A  carriage  stood  at  Sir 
Edward's  door,  and  as  he  mounted  the 
stairs  he  met  the  Baronet  and  Lady 
Courtnay  descending. 

"  A  few  moments  later  and  you  would 


have  missed  us  altogether,"  said  Sir 
Edward,  sliaking  hands  cordially.  "  We 
are  just  starting  fur  Poissy,  to  pass  the 
day  with  some  friends  who  have  a  villa 
there." 

"  Elizabeth  has  been  there  for  three 
days,  and  I  cannot  endure  her  absence 
any  longer,"  said  Celeste,  "so  we  are 
going  to  fetch  her." 

"  I  hate  the  prospect  of  a  whole  day 
in  the  country,  I  declare  I  do,"  observed 
Sir  Edward,  glancing  ruefully  at  his 
wife.  "  It  'a  a  regular  persecution,  but 
Lady  Courtnay  will  not  go  alone,  and 
so  I  must  consent  to  l>e  victimized,  and 
dragged  away  from  Paris  this  charming 
day,  when  all  the  world  will  be  in  the 
Bois.  I  declare,  my  dear  fellow,"  he 
exclaimed  eagerly,  as  though  the  idea  at 
that  moment  was  most  fortunate,  —  "I 
declare,  I  wish  you  would  take  my  place, 
and  accompany  Lady  Courtnay." 

"0  Sir  Edward!"  cried  Celeste, 
turning  crimson  with  delight  at  tho 
prospect  of  a  day  in  the  country  v/ith 
Claude,  "  perhaps  M.  le  Comte  has  some 
other  engagement,  and  will  not  find  it 
convenient  to  go." 

"There  is  nothing  to  prevent  my 
going,  if  it  will  be  agreeable  to  your 
ladyship,"  said  Claude,  happy  and  yet 
hesitating.  He  knew  not  why,  but 
some  interior  voice  seemed  to  thunder 
in  his  ears,  "  Has  man  a  right  to  seek 
temptation,  in  order  to  prove  his  moral 
strength  •? " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Sir  Edward, 
looking  at  his  watch,  "  the  train  leaves 
in  twenty  minutes,  you  have  barely 
time  to  reach  the  station."  And  with- 
out any  further  remarks  he  hurried  his 
wife  into  the  carriage,  saying,  "Bring 
Elizabeth  back  with  you.  Remember 
the  evening  train  leaves  Poissy  at  eight. 
Take  good  care  of  my  wife,  monsieur ; 
bon  voyage."  And  he  clapped  the  door  to 
briskly  after  Claude,  and  turned  away, 
touching  his  hat  and  smiling  his  adieus. 
"I  swear,  there  are  few  husbands  as 
generous  and  unsuspecting  as  I  am,"  he 
said  to  himself  as  he  sauntered  toward 
the  Palais  Royal,  twisting  his  heavy 
gray  mustache  with  the  tips  of  his 
delicate  lavender  gloves.  "  Lady  Court- 
nay's  whim  to  go  to  Poissy  to-day  was 
most  inopportune,  as  I  had  promised  to 
ride  with  ma  belle  Julie  this  afternoon, 


mmmssms: 


^p 


132 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR 


niul  the  pretty  witch  would  have  cried 
iter  eyes  out  if  I  had  failed  to  keep  my 
iippointrnent.  Ah,  M.  le  Comte  I  your 
appouraiice  at  that  moment  saved  me 
iVoin  a  terrible  dilemma,  and  assisted 
mo  to  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone,  and 
1  oven  might  say  three  :  for  by  inviting 
him  to  go  in  my  place,  I  first  show  my 
friendship  for  him,  and  my  trust  lu  his 
honor ;  secondly,  my  entire  confidence  in 
my  wife  ;  and  thirdly,  my  devotion  to  ma 
Itelle  Julie.  How  very  apropos  his  visit 
wiis !  I  've  no  doubt  that  he  's  in  love 
with  my  wife,  it 's  a  thing  that  we  hus- 
bands have  to  submit  to,  and  so  it  had 
better  be  some  one  who  is  useful  in 
return,  than  a  fellow  who  has  n't  a  thou- 
sand francs  at  his  command  when  one 
wants  a  little  favor.  Be  as  happy  as  you 
can  yourself,  and  give  others  the  same 
chance,  is  my  motto,  and  an  excellent 
one  it  is.  Beside,  it  is  n't  my  business 
to  look  after  other  people's  morals.  We 
nre  responsible  beings  and  must  answer 
nil  nice  little  questions  for  ourselves ; 
nnd  then  it 's  absurd  to  preach  what  we 
don't  practise,  tliere  's  no  dignity  in  it. 
I  don't  take  the  trouble  to  avoid  my 
own  temptations,  then  why  should  I 
make  myself  responsible  for  others  1" 
Just  as  he  had  finished  this  philo- 
sophical soliloquy  he  found  himself  at 
Vefour's  ;  and  entering,  he  ordered  some 
ortolan  fricasse,  and  a  demi-bouteille  of 
ehdteau  Lafilfe,  off  which  he  lunched 
with  the  best  possible  appetite. 

When  Claude  and  Cdeste  found 
themselves  shut  into  the  carriage  alone, 
and  on  their  way  to  the  train  for  Poissy, 
their  first  feeling  was  one  of  confusion, 
from  which  their  speedy  arrival  at  the 
station  happily  relieved  them.  There 
they  found  the  compartment,  into  which 
they  hurried,  already  occupied  by  a 
chatty  old  gentleman,  who,  much  to 
their  annoyance,  insisted  upon  address- 
ing them  OS  husband  and  wife. 

Poor  Celeste  was  ready  to  cry  with 
vexation,  while  at  the  same  time  she 
felt  very  happy,  but  a  little  guilty  for 
daring  to  indulge  in  such  unlawfbl 
delight,  and  a  little  afraid  that  Eliza- 
beth would  blame  her,  not  understand- 
ing the  misadventure  that  had  forced 
this  welcome  and  yet  unwelcome  escort 
upon  her.  "  It  ia  not  my  fault,"  she 
thought ;  "  Sir  Edward  would  have  him 


accompany  me.  How  good  and  generous 
he  is  !  I  am  so  thankful  that  ho  is  not 
cross  and  jealous,  like  some  husbands.  It 
is  very  pleasant  to  take  this  little  excur- 
sion with  Claude,  still  it  is  rather  awk- 
ward. However,  I  did  nothing  to  bring 
it  about ;  therefore  my  conscience  does 
not  trouble  me,  and  I  may  as  well  have 
one  happy  day  to  remember  when  I  am 
old."  WiJ^h  this  comfortable  conclusion 
she  resigned  herself,  not  unwillinglj',  to 
the  circumstance  that  this  fortuitous 
event  had  thrust  upon  her. 

As  to  Claude  he  was  not  at  all  easy. 
We  will  not  say  he  was  unhappy,  on  the 
contrary,  he  was  at  the  very  threshold 
of  the  seventh  heaven,  if  such  a  com- 
parison is  not  irreverent ;  yet  he  was  not 
free  from  certain  little  interior  pricks, 
that  kept  him  from  perfect  bliss,  and 
detained  him  at  the  very  entrance  of 
the  paradise  opened  before  him.  He 
had  tried  to  reassure  himself  with  the 
same  questionable  logic  that  Celeste 
had  used ;  but  being  the  stronger  and 
more  intelligent  of  the  two,  it  did  not 
satisfy  him  so  easily.  He  had  been  suf- 
fering a  great  deal  for  several  days ;  in- 
numerable anxieties  harassed  his  wak- 
ing hours,  and  rendered  his  dreams 
anything  but  peaceful.  Already  be  was 
beginning  tj  pay  the  first  instalment  of 
the  debt  he  owed  to  his  experience,  a 
debt  of  ingratitude  for  what  it  had 
taught  him,  and  a  still  greater  debt  of 
self-indulgence.  His  love  for  Celeste 
had  shorn  him  of  his  strength.  He 
ought  never  to  have  looked  upon  her 
face  again,  after  the  night  he  accident- 
ally met  her  at  the  Hotel  de  Ventadour ; 
but  blinding  himself  with  an  intention 
of  friendship  and  assistance,  he  had  now 
reached  the  very  brink  of  the  precipice 
he  Had  intended  to  avoid.  He  now 
loved  her,  although  he  did  not  dare  to 
acknowledge  it  even  to  himself,  as  madly 
and  passionately  as  he  had  on  that 
day  when  they  had  parted  in  the  rose- 
garden  at  Monthelon ;  he  could  rib  longer 
delude  himself  with  sophistry,  he  loved 
her,  and  he  had  not  strength  to  give  her 
up.  Reason  thundered  in  his  ears  terri- 
ble warnings ;  there  were  ominous  signs 
in  the  political  horizon.  La  Marquise  had 
told  him  that  his  liberty  and  even  his 
life  were  menaced,  that  his  only  safety 
lay   in  his  immediate  departure  from 


^f 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


ns 


good  and  generous 
ikful  that  ho  is  not 
e  Bome  husbands.  It 
ake  this  little  excur- 
ill  it  is  rather  awk- 
id  nothing  to  bring 
my  conscience  does 
I  may  as  well  have 
tmemlMr  when  I  am 
ifortable  conclusion 
not  unwillingly,  to 
that  this  fortuitous 
ipon  her. 

was  not  at  all  easy, 
was  unhappy,  on  the 
:  the  very  threshold 
ven,  if  such  a  corn- 
rent  ;  yet  he  was  not 
ittle  interior  pricks, 
m  perfect  bliss,  and 
le  very  entrance  of 
ed  before  him.     He 
ire  himself  with  the 
logic  that  Celeste 
ng  the  stronger  and 
r  the  two,  it  did  not 
y.    Ho  had  been  suf- 
for  several  days ;  in- 
;s  harassed  his  wak- 
^endered   his  dreams 
iful.    Already  he  was 
he  first  instalment  of 
to  his  experience,  a 
le   for  what   it  had 
still  greater  debt  of 
flis  love  for  Celeste 
f  his  strength.    He 
ive  looked  upon  her 
\ie  night  he  accident- 
Hotel  de  Ventadour ; 
If  with  an  intention 
isistance,  he  had  now 
rink  of  the  precipice 
to  avoid.    He  now 
1  he  did  not  dare  to 
1  to  himself,  as  madly 
EU9  he  had  on    that 
1  parted  in  the  rose- 
n;  he  could  riMonger 
1  sophistry,  he  loved 
b  strength  to  give  her 
iered  in  his  ears  terri- 
9  were  ominous  signs 
:on.  La  Marquise  had 
liberty  and  even  his 
that  his  only  safety 
iatc  departure  from 


Paris,  and  ho  was  confident  of  it  him- 
Btlf  J  he  had  received  moro  than  one 
powerful  admonition  to  that  eflfect,  and 
yet  ho  hesitated.  He  had  said  to  La 
Marquiso  that  it  was  only  bis  duty  that 
inclined  him  to  remain  and  face  the 
consequences,  whatever  they  might  be. 
He  had  tried  to  say  the  same  to  his  own 
soul,  but  there  ho  stood  abashed  under 
his  falsehood,  and  was  forced  to  confess 
that  it  was  Celeste,  his  love  for  her,  his 
desire  for  her  presence,  that  made  him 
deaf  to  the  voice  of  warning.  In  his 
good  work  there  had  been  no  double 
motive ;  he  had  striven  with  a  single 
heart,  to  do  something  to  better  a  little 
the  condition  of  his  country.  His  love 
had  not  narrowed  his  soul,  it  had  deep- 
ened, and  enlarged  it,  and  opened  his 
really  noble  and  tender  heart  to  the 
dolorous  moaning  of  those  in  bondage. 
But  now  the  time  had  come  when  to 
continue  in  that  direction  was  to  lose 
the  chance  of  future  usefulness,  and 
that  he  had  no  right  to  do.  Reckless 
courage  is  as  much  a  sin  as  is  cowardice. 
If  he  had  not  been  blinded  by  his  pas- 
sion for  Celeste,  he  would  have  seen 
more  clearly  into  his  own  situation,  and 
withdrawn  from  danger  while  there  was 
opportunity. 

I  do  not  wish  to  blame  Claude  too 
severely,  he  is  my  hero  and  I  esteem 
him  highly ;  neither  do  I  wish  to  gain 
for  him  the  admiration  of  my  readers 
by  false  pretences  and  foolish  excuses. 
Therefore  I  state  the  case  exactly  as  it 
was,  not  hesitating  to  say  that  ho  was 
wrong,  decidedly  wrong,  to  accompany 
Lady  Courtnay,  even  at  her  husband's 
solicitation,  and  thereby  expose  himself 
to  a  temptation  that  he  should  have 
avoided,  and  still  more  in  fault  to 
linger  in  Paris,  when  he  should  liavc 
been  anywhere  else  at  that  critical 
time. 

When  they  reached  the  station  at 
Poissy,  and  escaped  from  the  presence 
of  the  garrulous  old  man  who  had  made 
their  cheeks  burn  more  than  once  by 
his  suggestive  remarks,  they  felt  a  little 
more  at  their  ease. 

"  Let  us  walk  to  the  villa,"  said 
Celeste,  as  she  took  Claude's  arm  on 
the  platform.  "  It  is  only  a  short  dis- 
tance and  through  a  most  delightful 
road," 


"  If  you  prefer  it,  certainly."  And  then 
they  sauntered  almost  silently  through 
a  narrow  country  lane,  tender  with  tho 
tints  of  spring ;  tho  soft  April  air  blew 
over  their  faces,  sunlight  and  shadow 
flickered  over  their  path,  the  green 
trailing  branches  bent  down  to  kiss 
their  heads,  and  the  daisy-studded 
grass  caressed  their  feet  that  pressed  it 
lightly. 

Sometimes  Celeste  raised  her  eyes  to 
the  face  of  her  companion,  and  sudden- 
ly dropped  them,  trembling  to  find  that 
his  were  fixed  upon  her  with  unmistak- 
able adoration.  Once,  almost  forgetting 
where  she  was,  she  spoke  to  him  and 
called  him  Claude ;  he  smiled  in  return, 
and  pressed  the  little  hand  that  lay  on 
his  arm.  She  was  vexed  at  herself  for 
having  done  so,  for  now  she  never  ad- 
dressed him  in  any  other  way  than  by 
his  title,  and  she  feared  ho  might  con- 
sider it  an  advance  toward  a  greater 
familiarity;  so  she  turned  away  her 
head  and  looked  resolutely  toward  tho 
forest  of  St.  Germain,  and  the  distant 
silvery  thread  of  the  Seine. 

"  This  reminds  me  of  the  April  days 
at  Clermont,"  said  Claude. 

"  Hush,"  cried  Celeste,  *'  I  am  never 
to  speak  of  them.  I  promised  Elizabeth 
never  to  speak  of  the  past." 

"  Then  we  will  speak  of  the  delight- 
ful present.  Are  you  happy  this  morn- 
ing, Celeste  t " 

His  voice  lingered  softly  on  her  name. 
She  did  not  reprove  him,  but  turned 
away  her  face  without  replying.  Then 
Claude  sighed  and  said,  "  I  wish  such  a 
day  as  this  could  have  no  to-morrow. 
If  it  could  but  last  forever,  or  end  to 
both  of  us  at  once." 

"  The  world  is  very  beautiful,  Claude, 
and  life,  in  spite  of  sorrow,  has  so  much 
sweetness  in  it,  I  think  we  should  not 
desire  to  shorten  it  even  one  hour." 

"Do  you  always  think  so,  dear  Ce- 
leste 1" 

"  Not  always,  0,  not  always !  "  she  re- 
plied with  a  sigh  that  revealed  an  abyss 
of  sadness  that  he  had  not  fathomed. 
"  Sometimes  I  am  very  weary,  and  wish 
it  would  all  end.  I  don't  think  I  have 
the  strong  nature  to  endure,  although  I 
strive  very  hard  to  be  patient  and  hap- 

py." 

"  Poor  child,"  said  Claude  with  ten- 


wijmj^mss^agpsmtfffwmms^i^iiismm^^^^'' 


134 


A  GROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


dor  pity,  "  God  knows  how  I  wish  that 
I  might  boar  your  burdens." 

"  My  burdens  1  0  Claude,  I  have  no 
burdens,"  she  returned  with  an  eager- 
ness of  denial  that  did  not  deceive  him. 
"  I  am  sure  evory  one  is  so  good  to  me. 
Think  of  Sir  Edward,  how  kind  he  is ; 
and  dear  Elizabeth  does  so  much  to 
make  mo  happy.  If  I  nm  not  contented 
with  my  lot,  it  is  my  own  fault,  my  own 
wicked  heart  is  alouo  to  blame."  Then 
she  paused  and  colored,  dropping  her 
eyes  with  shame,  as  though  she  had  re- 
vealed too  much.  Cliiude  made  no  re- 
ply, and  both  fell  into  a  silence  which 
thoy  scarce  dared  to  break,  fearing  lest 
they  should  encroach  upon  some  inter- 
dicted subject.  Their  hearts  naturally 
turned  to  the  old  days,  and  they  longed 
to  speak  of  them,  but  Celeste  remem- 
bered her  promise,  and  Claude  respected 
it ;  so  they  said  but  little  more  until 
they  reached  the  gate  of  the  villa,  where 
Celeste  was  glad  to  be,  feeling  that  the 
presence  of  Elizabeth  would  relieve  her 
from  all  embarrassment. 

The  porter  who  opened  the  gate 
looked  a  little  surprised  as  he  recog- 
nized Lady  Courtnay.  "The  family 
have  all  gone  to  Paris,  madame,"  he 
said. 

•'  Gone  to  Paris  I "  repeated  Cilesto, 
confounded. 

"Yes,  madame,  they  went  in  the 
ten-o'clock  train  to  accompany  Madem- 
oiselle Elizabeth,  who  wished  to  re- 
turn home." 

"  And  I  have  come  to  fetch  her,"  said 
Celeste.  "  It  is  an  annoying  contretemps  ; 
wo  have  passed  her  on  the  road;  and 
now  all  that  remains  for  us  to  do  is  to 
turn  and  follow  her." 

"  When  does  the  next  train  leave  1 " 
inquired  Claude  of  the  porter. 

"0  monsieur,  there  is  not  another 
train  until  eight  o'clock  this  evening." 

*'  Eight  o'clock  I "  exclaimed  C61este. 

"Eight  o'clock,"  repeated  Claude, 
looking  at  his  watch,  "and  it  is  now 
only  one ! " 

"  Seven  hours,"  said  Celeste ;  "  what 
shall  we  dol" 

"  0,  there  is  a  great  deal  to  see  in 
Poissy,  madame,  while  dinner  is  being 
prepared  for  you.  What  hour  would 
you  like  to  dinel" 

Celeste  looked  at  Claude,  and  then 


said  to  the  man,  "  Will  the  family  dine 
at  home  r* 

"  No,  madame,  they  will  leave  Paris 
about  the  time  the  eight-o'clock  train 
arrives  there." 

"  Well,"  said  Claude,  pleasantly,  "  we 
must  make  the  host  of  the  misadven- 
ture. If  you  are  not  too  tired,"  turn- 
ing upon  Celeste  a  very  happy  face, 
"we  will  walk  through  the  town  and 
see  the  church  where  St.  Louis  was  bap- 
tized, and  the  other  places  of  interest, 
and  return  to  dinner  at  whatever  hour 
you  like." 

"  I  think  it  had  bettor  be  early,"  re- 
plied Celeste,  with  rather  a  troubled 
face;  "say  four  o'clock." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  porter,  touch- 
ing his  hat  as  they  left  him,  "  I  will 
give  the  order  to  the  cook,  and  when 
madame  returns  she  will  find  every- 
thing in  readiness." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  time 
flew  swiftly,  and  before  they  were  aware 
of  it  the  hour  to  dino  had  already  ar- 
rived. When  Celeste  seated  herself  at 
the  table  opposite  Claude,  and  their 
eyes  met,  both  were  visibly  agitated, 
their  position  toward  each  other  was  so 
trying,  and  their  hearts  were  so  filled 
with  old  memories  and  hopes,  that  this 
simple  meal,  partaken  without  the  pres- 
ence of  a  third  party,  suggested  more 
than  either  could  bear  quite  calmly. 
Dish  after  dish  went  away  .  scarce 
tasted.  They  were  both  too  troubled 
to  eat,  and  the  dinner  was  a  mere  form 
that  they  wore  thankful  to  have  finished. 

"  How  calm  and  quiet  it  is  here ! " 
said  Cdeste,  as  they  stood  side  by  side 
at  a  bow-window  that  opened  on  the 
lawn.  "  I  think  I  was  not  created  for 
a  city  life ;  I  pine  for  the  country  al- 
ways." 

"A  life  of  seclusion  and  retirement 
brings  us  into  more  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  oiu*  own.  hearts;  we  study  our- 
selves more  and  others  less.  Therefore 
the  objection  might  arise  that  such  a 
continued  intercourse  with  self  would 
tend  to  make  one  narrow-minded,  ego- 
tistical, and  intolerant,"  replied  Claude, 
looking  at  her  earnestly,  yet  with  an 
absorbed  and  troubled  air 

"There  are,  no  doubt,  many  detri- 
meutal  influences  in  a  life  of  entire  so- 
clusion,  but  there  are  some  uaturoa  con- 


L 


nil  the  family  dine 

ey  will  leave  Paris 
eight-o'clock  train 

fde,  pleasantly,  "  we 
It  of  the  misadvcn- 
pt  too  tired,"  turn- 
very  happy  face, 
bugh  tiie  town  and 
ru  St.  Louis  was  bap- 
plttcea  of  interest, 
br  at  whatever  hour 

bettor  be  early,"  re- 
rnthcr  a  troubled 

Block." 
the  porter,  touch- 
left  him,  "  I   will 

the  cook,  and  when 

he  will   find  every- 


say  that  the  time 

fore  they  were  aware 

dine  had  already  ar- 

3te  seated  herself  at 

I  Claude,  and  their 

ere  visibly  agitated, 

rd  each  other  was  so 

icarts  were  so  filled 

and  hopes,  that  this 

^en  without  the  prcs- 

irty,  suggested  more 

1  bear  quite  calmly. 

went    away  .  scarce 

e  both  too  troubled 

ner  was  a  mere  form 

ikful  to  have  finished. 

1  quiet  it  is  here ! " 

}y  stood  side  by  side 

that  opened  on  the 

was  not  created  for 

I  for  the  country  al- 

ision  and  retirement 
9  intimate  acquaint- 
leails;  we  study  our- 
lers  less.  Therefore 
>t  arise  that  such  a 
rse  with  self  would 

narrow-minded,  ego- 
ant,"  replied  Claude, 
•nestly,  yet  with  an 
bled  air 

doubt,  many  detri- 
in  a  life  of  cutiro  so- 
jre  some  natures  con- 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


130 


stitutod  for  it  and  to  whom  it  has  a 
peculiar  charm.  Still  I  do  not  advo- 
cate an  existence  entirely  separated  from 
the  world.  I  was  thinking  of  the  sweet 
family  life  apart  from  the  consuming 
cares  of  a  great  city."  Again  she 
paused  in  confusion;  unwittingly  she 
had  expressed  her  companion's  thoughts, 
and  ai)proached  that  dangerous  ground 
on  which  it  would  be  madness  to  tread. 

"Celeste,  may  I  ask  you  one  ques- 
tion 1"  cried  Claude,  suddenly  taking 
her  hand.  "Are  you  satisfied  with 
your  lifer* 

"  0  Claudo !  how  can  you  ask  it  1 " 
and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

It  was  an  avowal  of  all  her  sorrow, 
all  her  disappointment,  all  her  hidden 
care  and  misery,  all  the  anxiety  that 
was  consuming  her.  It  broke  down  the 
barriers  between  them.  It  opened  the 
floodgates  of  their  hearts,  and  both 
wept  passionately  together. 

"Tell  me  all,"  oriei  Claude,  "for  it 
is  only  by  knowing  yriur  true  situation 
that  I  can  be  of  psy  assistance. to  you." 

"  It  may  bo  vTong  to  tell  you,"  she 
sobbed,  "  it  m?y  seem  like  complaining 
of  my  good  husband,  who  is  not  to 
blame.  He  has  been  very  unsuucessful, 
and  has  lost  all  my  fortune ;  but  I  do 
not  blame  him  in  the  least,  I  only  suf- 
fer because  we  are  so  helpless,  Eliza- 
beth and  myself,  and  the  future  looks 
so  terrible  to  us.  0  Claude,  we  so  need 
some  one  to  advise  us,  and  we  cannot 
bear  to  trouble  poor  Sir  Edward,  he  is 
so  kind,  so  good  to  us  both  I " 

Claude  did  not  dispute  her  belief  in 
the  goodness  of  her  husband ;  he  did 
not  accuse  him ;  he  did  not  enlighten 
her ;  he  only  tried  to  comfort  her,  and 
to  win  her  entire  confidence.  Gradu- 
ally he  drew  from  her  the  whole  story 
of  their  complete  ruin,  their  struggle 
to  keep  up  an  appearance  of  prosperity, 
their  annoyances  and  distresses  from  the 
importunities  of  creditors,  their  sacri- 
fices, and  their  efforts  to  hide  the  worst 
from  the  unprincipled  man  who  had 
robbed  them. 

During  this  pitiful  recital,  Claude's 
cheeks  burned,  and  his  heart  beat  al- 
most to  suffocation.  He  looked  at  the 
frail,  lovely  woman  before  him,  young 
still,  and  so  unsuspecting,  so  innocent 
and  gentle.     *'  My  God  ! "  he  thought, 


"  how  terrible  will  be  her  fate,  bound 
to  tliat  miserable  man,  who  will  drag 
her  down  with  him,  either  to  entire  nun 
or  a  promuturo  grave  1  And  she  belongs 
to  me  ;  by  every  holy  riglit  she  is  mine. 
I  will  save  her  if  she  will  bo  saved.  It 
is  my  duty  to  save  her.  It  is  my  sacred 
duty  to  rescue  her  from  a  worse  fate." 
His  passion  and  pity  overwhelmed  liim, 
blinded  and  bewildered  him  ;  he  felt  for 
the  time  as  though  this  adored  woman, 
this  idolized  being,  hung  suspended 
over  the  very  flames  of  perdition,  and 
that  it  was  his  privilege,  his  duty  to 
save  her.  He  forgot  all  else  beside,  and 
clasping  her  hands  in  his,  he  implored 
her  with  the  most  passionate  tones,  the 
most  forcible  language,  to  abandon  this 
man  who  had  ruined  her,  who  was 
unworthy  of  her  love,  who  had  no 
moral  right  to  her,  to  fly  with  him  to 
some  secluded  place,  where  alone  and 
happy  with  each  other  they  might  re- 
trieve the  past  by  a  blissful  future.  He 
went  on  with  an  eager  impetuosity, 
impelled  by  his  love,  his  despair,  his 
fear,  like  one  who  stakes  all  on  a  last 
throw,  who,  if  he  loses,  loses  all ;  he 
felt  it,  he  understood  it,  and  yet  he 
dared  to  take,  in  this  presumptuous 
manner,  his  fate  into  his  own  hands. 

At  first  Celeste  did  not  understand 
his  full  meaning ;  but  when  she  did 
she  sprang  away  from  the  clasp  of  his 
hands,  and  stood  looking  at  him  in  wild- 
eyed  terror.  At  length  she  found  voice 
and  cried  out  in  tones  of  such  anguish 
that  he  never  forgot  them,  "  0  Claude, 
Claude !  are  you  mad  that  you  speak 
so  to  me  who  have  almost  worshipped 
you  1 "  There  was  a  depth  of  reproach 
in  this  that  wrung  his  heart;  he  re- 
membered how  he  had  once  said,  "  She 
shall  never  have  cause  to  reproach 
me."  "  Me  who  have  so  reverenced  you 
and  trusted  you.  It  is  not  your  own 
noble  nature  that  speaks ;  you  are  in- 
sane, you  know  not  what  you  say,  there- 
fore I  forgive  you,  as  I  hope  God  will." 
And  with  a  look  of  deep  compassion 
and  sorrow,  she  turned  to  leave  him. 

"  Listen,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  listen 
to  me  for  but  a  moment ! "  ho  cried, 
springing  befora  her,  and  clasping  his 
hands  in  frenzied  supplication.  "0 
Celeste,  have  pity  on  me,  I  am  mad, 
I  am  indeed  mad;  I  love  you,  I  adore 


m 


136 


A  CROWN  FROM  TUB  SPEAR. 


you,  and  I  cannot,  bo  separated  from  you 
again ;  I  will  strive  to  be  calm,  see,  I 
am  already  calmer.  O  Celeste,  my  an- 
gel, do  not  leavo  me  I"  And,  ovorcomo  by 
hia  emotion,  ho  covered  his  face  with 
hia  handa  and  burst  into  tears. 

She  drew  near  him,  almost  terrified 
by  hia  violent  weeping,  yet  her  face 
was  calm  and  solemn,  and  her  voice 
was  full  of  tenderness  as  she  said, 
"  Dear  Claude,  control  yourself  for  my 
sake,  think  how  you  alarm  me ;  I 
suffor,  I  suffer  deeply  for  you,  and  I 
suffer  for  myself,  as  I  shall  do  in  all 
the  future.  I  shall  never  again  bo  at 
peace.  I  have  heard  words  fVom  you 
that  will  haunt  me  always.  0  my 
darling  Elizabeth  !  0  my  dear  good  hus- 
band !  I  can  never  look  into  your  kind 
faces  again  without  dreadful  shame  and 
remorse." 

"  Forgive  me,  Celeste,  forgive  me," 
ho  cried  in  broken  tones,  while  he 
struggled  to  regain  his  composure.  "  I 
am  more  than  guilty,  and  I  deserve  to 
1)0  crushed  by  your  indignation  and 
contempt.  I  deserve  neither  pity  nor 
mercy  from  you,  and  yet  I  implore 
both.  Como  near  me,  do  not  stand 
trembling  as  though  you  feared  mc. 
God  knows  I  would  not  harm  one  haii- 
of  your  precious  head.  Come  near  me." 
And,  taking  her  hand,  he  drew  her  to 
the  embrasure  of  the  window. 

The  sun  was  gliding  down  to  the 
west,  throwing  long  shadows  of  the 
poplars  across  the  lawn.  The  silence 
around  them  was  only  broken  by  the 
gentle  twitter  of  the  birds  building 
their  nests  among  the  branches  of  an 
elm,  and  the  soft  soughing  of  the  wind 
that  blew  over  their  feverish  faces,  and 
rustled  tho  curtains  that  floated  in  and 
out  like  white  wings  of  peace. 

They  looked  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence  upon  the  placid  scene,  and  then 
Claude,  drawing  away  from  his  com- 
panion, bent  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
striving  to  calm  the  tempest  that  raged 
within ;  while  C61eBte  prayed  silently 
that  God  would  give  them  both  strength 
to  conquer  their  suffering  hearts.  Thus 
they  stood,  these  two  poor  souls,  ar- 
rested on  the  very  threshold  of  happi- 
ness by  a  solemn  interior  voice  that 
neither  dared  to  disobey.  Loving  each 
other  to  adoration,   longing  to    unite 


their  lives,  their  destinies,  their  sor- 
rows and  joys,  and  yet  not  daring  to 
cross  that  line  of  demarcation  that  God 
had  placed  between  them. 

At  length  Celeste  reached  out  her 
hand  across  the  open  window,  and  laid 
it  gentlv  on  the  bowed  head  of  Claude. 
Ho  looked  up,  his  face  wan  ghastlv 
white,  and  his  lips  were  trembling  with 
ill-suppressed  emotion.  "  Go,"  she  said, 
—  "  go,  dear  Claude,  and  leave  me  alone 
to  think.  Something  tolls  me  that  after 
this  I  should  never  return  to  Sir  Edward 
again.  I  must  go  and  hide  myself 
somewhere.  I  cannot  deceive  Elizabeth, 
neither  can  I  deceive  him  ;  for  now  I 
know  I  do  not  love  him,  that  I  never 
loved  him,   that  it   is  you,  and  only 


you, 
him 


I  love,  and  therefore  I  cannot  see 
again." 

"  0  my  blesred  angel ! "  cried  Claude, 
beside  himself  at  the  words,  which  ho 
had  only  half  understood,  "  mny  Gud 
forget  mo  if  I  ever  cause  you  a  sor- 
row ! " 

"  Leave  me,"  she  said  gently, — "leavo 
me  for  one  hour  to  decide  on  my  future 
course ;  then  come  to  me,  and  I  will 
tell  you  my  determination." 

Claude  pressed  her  hands  to  his  lips. 
The  white  curtains  waved  over  them 
like  the  wings  of  peace ;  a  slanting 
sunbeam  touched  their  clasped  hands 
and  bowed  heads  with  a  loving  bene- 
diction. Then  Claude  went  out  through 
the  open  window,  into  the  shadow  of 
the  poplars  alone,  and  Celeste  stood 
gazing  after  him,  until  a  winding  path 
hid  him  from  her  sight. 

Alas  for  them,  through  what  shadow 
shall  they  pass  before  the  sunlight  shall 
touch  them  again ! 

For  an  hour  Claude  paced  rapidly 
the  long  avenues  of  the  park  in  a  terri- 
ble state  of  agitation.  In  vain  he  tried 
to  control  himself  by  calling  to  his 
assistance  some  of  the  powerful  argu- 
ments that  had  saved  him  liefore. 
But  ho  could  not  reason  ;  he  could  not 
lift  his  heart  in  calm,  immovable  trust 
to  Him  who  hears  us  when  we  cry.  He 
desired  to  be  saved  from  this  fearful 
conflict ;  ho  desired  to  do  right ;  and 
yet,  withal,  he  said,  "  I  will  not  give 
her  up,  I  will  not  give  her  up."  There- 
fore Christ  turned  away  his  face,  and 
left  him  aloue  in  his  struggle. 


tatinics,   their  sor- 
yet  not  daring  to 
nurcation  that  God 
lem. 

reached  out  her 

window,  and  laid 

sd  head  of  Claude. 

face   wan  ghastly 

rero  trembling  with 

n.     "  Go,"  she  said, 

and  leave  mo  alone 

g  tolls  me  that  after 

9tum  to  Sir  Edward 

and    hide   myself 

>t  deceive  Elizabeth, 

ve  him  ;  for  now  I 

him,  that  I  never 

is  you,  and  only 

reforo  I  cannot  see 

gel ! "  cried  Claude, 
le  words,  which  ho 
irstood,  "  may  God 
cause   you  a  sor- 

aid  gently, — "leave 
jecide  on  my  future 

to  me,  and  I  will 
lination." 

er  hands  to  his  lips. 
s  waved  over  them 

peace ;  a  slanting 
their  clasped  hands 
with  a  loving  bene- 
ide  went  out  through 
into  the  shadow  of 

and  Celeste  stood 
ntil  a  winding  path 
sight. 

irough  what  shadow 
re  the  sunlight  shall 

uide  paced  rapidly 
the  park  in  a  terri- 
D.  In  vain  he  tried 
by  calling  to  his 
the  powerful  argu- 
saved  him  before, 
ason  ;  he  could  not 
m,  immovable  tnist 
B  when  we  cry.  He 
d  from  this  fearful 
1  to  do  right;  and 
I,  "I  will  not  give 
ve  her  up."  There- 
away his  face,  and 
lis  struggle. 


iisii. 


e±^i 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


137 


m 


It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  that 
such  a  soul  must  suffer  intense  torture 
before  it  can  succumb  to  an  ignoble 
deed,  und  that  afterward  the  remorse 
must  be  a  devouring  agony.  Claude 
had  endured  much ;  he  had  l)oen 
through  fearful  mental  conflicts;  but 
such  a  one  as  this  hod  never  torn  and 
racked  all  his  being  with  a  thousand 
keen  puinu ;  he  had  never  before  been 
BO  utterly  overpowered,  so  completely 
defeated.  The  soft  wings  of  night 
fanned  his  forehead,  the  dew  fell  Uke  a 
balm  upon  the  thirsty,  fainting  flowers, 
the  twitter  of  the  birds  died  away  into 
the  murmuring  of  their  leufy  nests,  and 
a  profound  silence  reigned  around  him. 
He  throw  himself  prostrate  on  the 
ground,  and  burying  his  face  in  the 
cool,  damp  moss,  tried  to  think,  to 
reason,  to  arrange  his  plans ;  but 
there  was  no  order,  no  rational  inten- 
tions, no  fixed  purpose  save  one  ;  and 
that  was  to  separate  Celeste  from  her 
prcsotit  misery,  and  to  bind  her  to  him- 
self forever.  A  still,  deep  voice  seemed 
to  say,  "  Renounce  her,  give  her  up 
forever.  Go  to  her  in  noble  penitence, 
and  tell  her  that  your  path  is  made 
clear,  aud  that  it  does  not  lie  with  hers. 
Leave  her,  and  go  back  to  your  duties, 
your  old,  culm  life,  and  forget,  in  pa- 
tient labor,  your  unworthy  passion." 

"  No,  no,"  he  cried,  springing  to  his 
feet  and  turning  toward  the  house, — 
"  no,  I  will  not  give  her  up,  though 
the  heavens  should  crush  me."  The 
hour  had  passed ;  he  reached  the  win- 
dow where  he  had  parted  from  Clleste  ; 
the  room  was  empty,  she  was  gone. 
He  looked  around  bewildered.  The 
wind  still  waved  the  white  curtains  in 
and  out.  A  faint  light  from  a  crystal 
glolie  illuminated  a  table,  on  which 
lay  some  writing-materials,  and  among 
them  he  saw  a  note  addressed  to  him- 
self He  tore  it  open.  It  was  stained 
and  blotted  with  tears. 

"  I  fly  from  you,  Claude,  because  I  fear 
you,  and  I  fear  myself  still  more.  I  go 
to  my  kind  husband,  my  noble  Elizabeth, 
to  confess  all.  And  then  —  and  then  — 
I  shall  leave  the  future  to  the  mercy  of 
God.  In  this  moment  the  purest,  the 
sweetest,  the  most  tender  feelings  are 
I)laced  in  strong  contrast  to  the  unwor- 


mmm 


thy,  the  unholy,  the  ignoble.  And  I  ask 
myself  what  is  true  and  what  is  false  ; 
and  straightway  a  divine  finger  writes 
before  me  in  letters  of  fire,  '  Thy  duty  at 
any  cost.  Lot  not  the  heart's  wild  pas- 
sion, the  unrestrained  love,  darken  the 
clear,  pure  light  of  reason.  Let  not  tho 
nature  desiring  to  grow  up  to  the  radiant 
sun  of  holiness  turn  downward  to  the 
day  of  which  it  is  fashioned,  forget- 
ting its  origin  in  its  base  grovelling. 
Great  and  noble  souls  sacrifice  passion 
and  desire  to  virtue  and  purity  ;  and  he 
who  conquoreth  himself  is  worthy  of  a 
martyr's  crown.  The  joys  of  tho  heart 
are  sweet,  and  love  turneth  nil  tilings 
to  pleasure  ;  but  remorse  and  regi'ot  fol- 
low fast  upon  gratification.  Passion 
is  destitute  of  tenderness.  Love  be- 
getteth  passion  ;  but  alas  I  passion  de- 
stroyeth  love.'  I  cannot  disregard  the 
solemn  monition  of  this  holy  teacher. 
My  groat  love  for  you  sinks  into  insig- 
nificance beside  the  importance  of  my 
duty.  Therefore  I  fly  from  you  forever. 
I  do  not  reproach  you  ;  I  do  not  blame 
you.  I  thank  God  that  ho  has  given 
me  strength  to  save  us  both  from  sin. 
When  you  become  calmer,  when  reason, 
when  truth  asserts  itself,  you  will  see 
with  me,  that  though  our  hearts  bleed 
to  death,  this  parting  is  necessary, 
absolutely  necessary.  I  would  have 
adored  you  as  a  friend,  a  brother ;  but 
that  cannot  be.  We  have  loved  once, 
we  shall  love  always,  and  we  cannot  be 
friends ;  therefore  we  must  be  strangers. 
I  know  you  will  respect  my  decision, 
and  will  never  strive  to  change  it. 
Farewell.  God  bless  you,  and  help  you 
to  forget  how  we  have  suffered. 

"CfeLESTB." 

When  Claude  had  read  these  lines  he 
stood  for  a  few  moments  like  one  stupe- 
fied by  a  sudden  blow.  Then  ho  pressed 
his  hand  to  his  head,  sighed  heavily  and 
sank  almost  unconscious  into  the  chair 
where  Celeste  had  sat  to  write  these 
truthful  but  crushing  words.  His  fever- 
ish passion  was  calmed  and  cooled  sud- 
denly and  completely  ;  he  felt  as  though 
she  were  lying  dead  before  him,  stricken 
lifeless  by  his  hand.  The  profound 
silence  tortured  him;  the  regular  waving 
of  the  white  curtains  in  the  wind  seemed 
like  spectral  forms  j  the  incessant  com- 


f 


'I',."!)" 


138 


A  CROWN  FROM  TUB  SPEAR. 


plaints  of  his  ounsoionco  aflrightod  him ; 
inuctioi)  and  ropoHO  wero  unoudurable, 
nnd  ho  aroao  and  plunged  again  into  tho 
daritness.  A  half-huur  after  ho  ap- 
peared at  tho  lodge,  and  muttering  Bonio 
Hcarcoly  intclligihlo  exeuHO  for  being  bo 
late,  he  naked  if  Ludy  C'ourtnuy  had 
gone. 

"  Yea,  monsieur,  aho  left  more  than 
an  hour  ago ;  one  of  the  aervonta  walked 
with  her  to  the  atation." 

Claudo  looked  at  hia  watch,  it  was 
nearly  nine  o'clock  ;  Celcato  was  already 
far  on  her  way  to  Paria.  *'  When  will 
the  next  train  leave  1 " 

"  At  cloven  o'clock,  monaieur." 

Claude  thanked  tho  servant  and 
turned  away  mochauicuUy,  scarce  know- 
ing, scarce  caring,  where  ho  went. 

"  Another  contretempn,"  thought  tho 
porter  as  he  closed  tho  gate  after  him. 


PART  SEVENTH. 

"STGRNITUR   INFELIX   ALIENO   TnLKERB." 

When  Claude  reached  Paris,  some- 
where about  midnight,  he  was  really  ill 
from  fatigue  and  agitation.  He  had 
been  through  a  kind  of  special  suffering 
that  left  nothing  for  consolation.  He 
had  been,  as  it  were,  intoxicated  by  his 
emotions,  and  had  acted  in  tho  most 
insane  manner,  destroying  and  annul- 
ling all  the  laws  of  reason,  which  he 
had  constructed  for  his  own  security 
out  of  his  past  experience.  By  his 
importunate  desire  to  rescue  Celeste 
from  what  he  thought  to  be  misery, 
but  what  was  in  reality  duty,  he  had 
in  one  rash  moment  overthrown  the 
wall  which  he  had  erected  for  her 
safety,  and  thereby  left  her  defenceless. 
Now  he  knew  that  they  were  indeed 
parted  forever,  and  that  ho  had  de- 
stroyed his  only  chance  of  aiding  her ; 
there  was  no  longer  any  intention  of 
friendship  to  fall  back  upon.  He  had 
tried  that  specious  project,  and  had 
proved  it  to  be  a  failure.  He  had  in- 
tended to  do  so  much  for  her,  but  his 
own  folly  had  prevented  him  from 
doing  anything.  These  were  the 
thoughts  that  made  his  remorse  un- 
endurable, and  added  to  his  sorrow  for 


her  loss  a   thousand  poignant  regrets 
fur  his  own  weaknoas  and  indiacrution. 

When  Claudo  entered  hia  room  in 
tho  Rue  St.  lloch,  ho  found  Triatuii 
waiting  for  him,  pale  and  wcury  with 
watcliing  und  anxiuty ;  for  his  abtjunce 
during  tho  whulo  day,  without  any  ex- 
planation, hud  alarmed  hint  terribly. 
When  tho  faithful  servant  raised  his 
eyes,  und  looked  upon  tho  troubled  face 
of  his  master,  he  knew  aoniethin^  un- 
nsuttl  hud  occurred.  And  wlicn  Claude 
threw  himself,  overcome  by  hia  feoliiiga, 
upon  the  faithful  heart  that  never 
failed  him,  Triatan  understood  that  he 
hud  received  another  hcatv  blow,  and 
he  tried  to  comfort  him  in  tho  boat  way 
he  could.  Then  there  followed  two  or 
three  days  of  illness  ;  of  fever,  riolirium, 
moaning,  and  tossing,  when  some  of  the 
old  scenes  after  his  flight  from  Cler- 
mont were  reacted,  and  Tristan's  fuiMng 
strength  was  tested  to  the  uttermobt. 
However,  the  frenzy  soon  exhausted 
itself ;  it  was  not  long  or  serious.  On 
the  fourth  day  after  that  sunbright 
morning  when  he  and  Celeste  walked 
through  tho  flowers  and  light  into 
shadow,  he  arose,  pale  and  weak,  but 
calm ;  and,  dressing  himself,  ho  sent 
Triatan  for  a  carriage,  and  drove  to  the 
Rue  Coatiglione,  for  be  had  determined 
to  see  Celeste  again,  but  once  again. 
He  felt  that  he  could  not  endure  life 
without  hearing  from  her  lips  that 
she  forgave  him,  and  that  she  was  well 
and  free  from  any  new  unxiety.  Then 
ho  intended  to  leave  Paris,  and,  return- 
ing to  Sarzeau,  endeavor  there  to  reunite 
again  the  broken  threads  of  his  life ; 
to  take  up  the  burden  anew,  and  go  on 
patiently  with  his  humble  duties.  For 
the  lost  two  months  he  had  been  happy, 
—  too  happy,  as  he  had  learned  from 
this  last  experience.  He  had  been 
dwelling  in  paradise ;  and  now  he  was 
driven  out,  and  the  gates  were  closed 
upon  him  forever.  It  was  not  so  much 
the  pain  of  his  banishment  as  it  was 
the  thought  that  he  had  brought  it 
upon  himself. 

I  remember  once  standing  on  the 
roof  of  the  Cathedral  of  Milan,  just  as 
the  sun  sank  below  the  Alps,  throw- 
ing a  last  beam  of  light  over  the 
brow  of  that  wonderful  statue  by  Mi- 
chael Aogelo  of  Adam  after  hia  cxpul- 


id  poignant  rogreU 
188  and  iiidiacrution. 
interod    Iuh  room  in 
ti,  ho   found  TrlHtttu 
lolo  and  weary  with 
oty ;  for  hia  nbKonco 
lay,  without  ony  ox- 
irtned   hin»   toiribly. 
!l  servant  raised   hin 
|l)on  the  troubled  fnco 
know  BoniethinK  un- 
.     And  when  Claude 
|rcomo  by  his  feelingH, 
il   heart    that    never 
understood  that  ho 
her  heavy  blow,  and 
t  hiu)  in  the  best  way 
;hcre  followed  two  or 
S8  ;  of  fever,  fiolirium, 
ing,  when  some  of  the 
his  flight  from  Cler- 
,  and  Tristan's  failing 
od  to  the  uttermobt. 
!nzy  soon    exhausted 
long  or  serious.     On 
ofter    that   siinbright 
}  and  Celeste  walked 
wers   and    light    into 
,  pale  and  weak,  but 
ling  himself,   he  sent 
iage,  and  drove  to  the 
'or  he  had  determined 
gain,  but  once  again, 
could  not  endure  life 
from   her  lips   that 
and  that  she  was  well 
j^  new  unxiety.     Then 
ave  Paris,  and,  retum- 
deavor  there  to  reunite 
>  threads  of  his  life ; 
rden  anew,  and  go  on 
}  humble  duties.     For 
hs  he  had  been  happy, 
he  had  learned  from 
2nce.     He    had    been 
lise ;  and  now  he  was 
bhe  gates  were  closed 
It  was  not  so  much 
}anishment  as  it  was 
t  he  had  brought  it 

ace  standing  on  the 
dral  of  Milan,  just  as 
low  the  Alps,  throw- 
1  of  light  over  the 
iderful  statue  by  Mi- 
idam  after  his  oxpul- 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


139 


•ion  fh>m  Eden.  Looking  at  this  statue, 
I  was  confused  by  the  contradictory 
expression  of  the  face.  It  is  true  there 
was  nuiuh  of  regret  in  it ;  a  sad,  calm 
longing  for  his  Eden  ;  a  desire  for  some- 
thing he  had  left  behind  ;  but  withal,  a 
pliicid  satisfiiction,  a  resignation,  a  con- 
tuntmoat,  most  ronmrkiiblo  in  one  who 
had  lost  so  much.  I,  who  then  stood,  with 
blooding  heart  and  rebellious  soul,  on 
the  outer  threshold  of  my  Eden,  could 
not  understand  this  patient  acqui- 
osuenco ;  and  feeling  that  the  groat 
master  was  at  fault  in  his  conception, 
I  said,  "  It  cannot  be  after  his  expul- 
sion, for  his  face  is  not  even  sorrow- 
ful." 

"  You  forget,"  replied  my  companion, 
"  that  he  was  not  driven  out  alone." 

Poor  Claude  hod  not  even  Adam's 
consolation  to  apply  to  his  regreti\il 
soul,  for  he  had  not  only  brought  his  ex- 
pulsion upon  himself,  but  ho  had  been 
ex  polled  ulono ;  and  that  perhaps  was 
the  bitterest  thought  of  all,  that  hence- 
forth he  must  l)e  entirely  separated 
from  his  idoL  When  he  reached  the 
Rue  Costiglione,  the  first  thing  that 
attracted  his  notice  was  a  card  attached 
to  the  porte  cochire  of  Sir  Edward's 
house,  bearing  the  suggestive  words, 
A  louer,  le  premier  itage. 

"  The  family  have  gone,  monsieur," 
said  the  old  woman  who  sat  knitting  in 
the  door. 

"Gone!   where  1" 

"  Heaven  only  knows.  They  went 
away  yesterday,  bag  and  baggage,  and 
the  apartment  is  to  let." 

"  Did  they  leave  no  address  1 " 

"  No,  monsieur,  not  with  me.  I  asked 
Mademoiselle  where  they  were  going, 
and  she  said  she  did  not  know.  Poor 
thing,  she  is  an  angel,  and  Madame  too, 
for  that  matter.  0  monsieur,  there  are 
many  strange  things  in  this  world.  It 
's  not  me  nor  you  that  they  did  not 
wish  to  know  where  they  were  going, 
but  the  duns,  the  creditors  of  milord, 
who  made  their  lives  wretched  I  Poor 
young  things !  Heaven  bless  them 
wherever  they  arel" 
«  Claude  made  no  reply,  but  his  heart 
echoed  the  old  woman's  wish,  as  he 
turned  away  sick  with  disappointment.. 

When  he  reached  his  room  again  he 
throw  himself  into  a  chair  like  one  who 


has  no  further  ^im  in  life,  saying  in  a 
weary,  dujected  voice,  "  They  have  gone, 
Tristan,  and  Uod  only  knows  to  whut 
fute."  In  the  evening  the  thought 
occurred  to  him  that  La  Marquise,  iio- 
ing  intinmte  with  Kir  Edward,  might 
know  something  of  their  whereabouts. 
"  I  will  go  directly,  Tristan.  Help  nie 
to  dress.  I  will  not  bo  late,  that  I  may 
see  her  alone."  While  dressing  ho 
thought  of  the  night  when  Philip  had 
come  to  him  full  of  life  and  happiness, 
to  take  him  for  the  first  time  to  La  Mar- 
quise. Toward  what  sod  results  he  had 
conducted  him.  Poor  Philip,  now  far 
from  him,  was  tasting  of  the  bitter  cup 
that  he  had  long  ago  drunk  to  the 
dregs,  and  which  he  must  drink  again, 
replenished  in  a  measure  by  his  own 
hand. 

When  Claude  entered  the  anteoham- 
bor  at  the  Hdtel  Ventadour  it  was  quite 
oarly,  and  there  were  no  signs  of  other 
visitors. 

"Does  Madame  receive  this  even- 
ing 1"  said  a  footman  to  another  ser- 
vant, as  Claude  gave  him  his  card. 

"No,"  replied  the  man,  turning  his 
back  and  wiUking  to  the  farther  side  of 
the  room. 

"Quel  impertinent t"  muttered  the 
footman,  looking  afler  him  curiously. 
And  then  turning  to  Claude,  he  said, 
politely,  "  Madame  does  not  receive  this 
evening,  M.  le  Comte." 

"  Take  my  card  to  her  at  once,"  sajd 
Claude  in  a  tone  that  admitted  of  no 
dispute,  "  and  say  to  her  that  she  will 
do  me  a  great  favor  if  she  will  receive 
me. 

In  a  moment  the  footman  returned, 
and,  throwing  open  the  door  of  the 
scarlet  room,  conducted  Claude  into  the 
presence  of  his  mistress,  saying  with  an 
imposing  air,  "M.  le  Comte  de  Cler- 
mont, madame." 

La  Marquise  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  under  the  great  golden  chan- 
delier, dressed  in  a  sort  of  demi-toilet 
of  white  cashmere  heavily  embroidered 
with  black.  There  was  something  fu- 
nereal and  solemn  in  her  appearance 
that  chilled  Claude  as  his  eyes  fell  upon 
her ;  but  when  she  came  forward  with  a 
warm  smile  trembling  on  her  lip  and  a 
sudden  flush  of  pink  upon  her  delicate 
cheek,   she    seemed   ti'ansformed    into 


140 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


■omothing  aitigiilarly  beautiful  ami  gri»- 
oiouH. 

"To   wlmt  accidont  do    I   owo   IIiIh 

rtlouHiiro]"  rIio  Huid,  holding  out  her 
iikiid  ill  eimer  welcome.  "  O  M.  lo 
C.'oiiitu,  1  nni  HO  gliul  to  nee  you  itafo  aiid 
well.  I  fcnred  ho  uuuiy  tcrrlMe  thingn 
for  j'ou.  You  oro  welcome,  moat  wol- 
como." 

"  And  you  nro  kind,  most  kind,"  re- 
plied Claudu  with  Bomo  wiiriuth,  for  her 
cumuHt,  idrnoHt  tender  grooting  touched 
hiH  Huft'cring  heart  like  a  balm. 

"  Will  you  conio  into  my  Imiidoir  f  It 
in  more  cosey  for  a  titrh-tke,  and  Iwsidc 
I  am  Huch  tua  invalid  that  I  rarely  leave 
it  now."  And  she  rniacd  the  curtain  as 
she  spoke,  and  entered  the  fair,  calm 
retreat,  that  revealed  nothing  of  the 
terrible  tempoiita  it  had  bo  often  wit- 
neased. 

Claude  followed  her,  and  aa  ahe  acatcd 
heraelf  on  the  sofa,  he  noticed  her  air  of 
languor  and  wcakncsa,  how  thin  she 
had  become  aince  the  last  time  ho  had 
seen  her,  and  how  transparently  white 
was  her  cheek;  there  was  aorocthing 
ethereal  in  the  pure  lines  of  her  face, 
the  hollow  intense  eyes,  and  the  mossea 
of  ailvery  hair. 

"  You  are  indeed  ill,"  ho  aaid  gently. 
"  What  are  you  aufTering  from  1 " 

"  The  physicians  do  not  know.  I  am 
dying  of  a  disease  that  baffles  their  skill 
of  detection,"  ahe  replied,  with  a  dim 
amilo  and  a  strange  quivering  of  the  lips. 

"  0  madame,  you  grieve  mo.  So 
youn<;,  so  l)cautiful,  and  so  happy,  is  it 
possii)le  that  nothing  can  be  done  to 
aave  youl" 

"Nothing,"  she  replied  calmly;  "I 
know  my  fate  and  I  am  contented.  0 
monsieur,  there  are  aotno  who  exhaust 
life  early,  they  live  witli  such  intensity 
that  they  consume  themselves !  Unfor- 
tunately I  was  born  with  such  a  nature. 
I  was  touched  with  a  fever  that  has 
urged  roe  on  to  the  most  enervating 
extremes,  and  now  at  the  time  when 
1  should  be  happy  and  hopeful,  with  a 
long  life  l)efore  me,  I  am  looking  im- 
patiently for  the  end." 

"Patron  mo,"  aaid  Claude,  gently; 
"is  there  not  still  some  remedy  1  Is 
it  right  to  allow  the  life  that  God  has 
given  to  slip  quietly  away  fVom  us, 
without  making  any  effort  to  retain  it  1 


And  are  wo  not  guilty  if  wo  accuao 
luiturc,  when  in  reality  it  ia  our  own 
■elf-indulgonco  that  has  mined  umI" 

"  If  there  ia  any  aim  in  living,  if  we 
can  bcneKt  or  render  happy  thoHo  around 
UH,  if  by  penance  and  team  wo  can  atone 
for  ain,  and  make  tho  soul  more  pure 
and  worthy  of  ita  eternal  inheritance, 
then,  pcrhapH,  wo  should  seek  to  extend 
to  the  utmost  limits  the  frail  thread  of 
existence ;  but  if,  on  tho  contrary,  life 
haa  nothing  /nore  to  give  ua,  if  wo  know 
that  we  havo  abnohitcly  loat  every 
chance  of  making  ouraelvea  happy  or 
othora  Iwttcr,  and  if  wo  have  exhausted 
our  tears  and  penanoea,  ahould  wo  atill 
dcuiro  to  livol 

"  We  should ;  there  is  no  extremity 
so  groat  that  wo  ahould  turn  ttom  it 
to  death  for  a  refuge,"  replied  Claude, 
Bolemnly. 

"  I  do  not  complain.  I  do  not  desire 
to  hasten  the  end,  but  when  it  arrives 
it  will  be  welcome.  Neither  do  I 
reproach  Qod  that  ho  has  not  given  me 
happiness.  I  was  not  created  to  possess 
it.  I  should  havo  abused  it,  and  becomo 
more  selfish,  intolerant,  and  arrogant. 
If  one  should  live  to  say,  '  I  havo  arrived 
at  tho  plenitude  of  bliss.  I  have  tasted 
the  inetiable,  tho  divine.  I  have  consum- 
mated tho  extreme  of  hope,  aspiration, 
and  desire,  and  there  is  no  more  of  joy 
to  experience,'  would  it  not  be  only  at 
tho  sitcrifice  of  hia  life  1  for  auch  a  day 
could  have  no  end.  It  muat  bo  the 
union  of  mortality  and  immortality,  tho 
iirat  delicious  draught  from  tho  fount 
of  eternal  beatification.  Therefore  I  do 
not  wiah  to  be  old.  I  desire  to  live 
with  all  tho  intensity  and  emotion  pos- 
sible ;  and  when  all  is  finished,  I  would 
feel  vividly  the  transport  and  raviah- 
ment,  the  ecstasy  of  immortal  happi- 
ness." 

Claude  looked  at  her  with  surprise 
and  pity.  So  young  and  so  beautiful, 
to  speak  thus  of  a  life  too  early  exhaust- 
ed. What  had  been  the  sorrow  and 
disappointment  that  had  blighted  her 
existence  1  What  poisonous  yrorm  had 
crept  into  the  heart  of  this  fair  flower, 
withering  it  and  killing  it  so  early  1« 
His  heart,  tender  from  the  smart  of  his 
own  sorrow,  was  full  of  commiseration 
for  her ;  he  longed  to  comfort  her,  and 
yet  he  knew  not  what  to  say.     When 


> 


\gw\ty  if  wo  accnao 
[lality  it  in  our  uwn 
ImH  niincil  unI" 
nitu  in  liviii(,',  if  wo 
pr  hnppy  thono  unmiid 
fid  tenrH  wo  ciui  ntono 
tlio  Huiil  nioro  |)uro 
eternal  inheritance, 
Should  Mcck  to  extend 
tta  the  frail  thread  of 
on  the  contrary,  lifo 
ko  give  lis,  if  wo  know 
hnolutely  lost  every 
oursolveH  happy  or 
J  if  wo  have  oxhauRtcd 
anccB,  should  wo  still 

hero  is  no  extremity 

should  turn  fVom  it 

ugo,"  replied  Claudo, 

Iain.     J  do  not  desire 
but  when  it  arrives 
Imc.      Neither    do    I 
he  has  not  given  me 
not  created  to  possess 
abused  it,  and  become 
Icrant,  and  arrogant, 
to  say,  '  I  have  arrived 
f  bliss.     I  have  tasted 
ivino.   I  have  consum- 
le  of  hope,  aspiration, 
hero  is  no  more  of  joy 
)u]d  it  not  be  only  at 
i  life  1  for  such  a  day 
id.      It  must  bo  the 
'  and  immortality,  the 
lught  from  tho  fount 
ition.     Therefore  I  do 
>ld.     I  desire  to  live 
sity  and  emotion  pos- 
11  is  finished,  I  would 
ransport  and  ravish- 
'  of  immortal  happi- 

at  her  with  surprise 
ing  and  so  beautiful, 
lifo  too  early  cxhaust- 
)een  the  sorrow  and 
lat  had  blighted  her 

poisonous  \yorm  had 
■rt  of  this  fair  flower, 

killing  it   so  early  1% 
from  the  smart  of  his 
ull  of  commiseration 

to  comfort  her,  and 
what  to  say.     When 


A  CROWN   PROM  TIIK  SPEAR. 


141 


> 


■ho  had  finished  siioakin^  her  face  hnd 
fiillcn  into  her  hands,  unci  now  ho  huw  a 
tear  trickle  slowly  tVom  betwuou  bur 
fingers  and  fall  into  her  Inp.  Slio  wuh 
weeping  silent  iy.  Tho  si^lit  wuh  more 
than  hu  could  cnduro  ;  hu  arose  and 
paced  tho  floor  rapidly,  Mcarco  knowing 
whuthur  to  ruHli  from  hor  proscnpo,  ur 
whether  to  throw  himsulf  on  his  knees 
before  her  and  strive  to  conii'oit  her 
with  gentle  words  and  tender  caresses. 

When  Claudo  left  his  seat  by  hor 
side,  tho  hands  of  La  Marquiso  fc-11 
heavily  ;  with  an  impatient  gosturo  hIio 
dashed  away  tho  tears  that  trutnlilod  on 
hor  lushes.  "  Mon  Dieu  I "  she  thought, 
"  whore   is   my  prido,  to  woep  in  tho 

fircHcnco  of  this  cold,  stem  man,  who 
lus  neitlier  pity  nor  love  for  niel  0, 
how  ho  will  despise  mo  for  my  weak- 
UL'HH ! "  Tlien  with  an  effort  she  said 
calmly,  "  Pardon  rao,  M.  le  Comte,  I 
am  very  nervous  and  foolish  this  even- 
ing. It  is  only  when  I  cannot  control 
my  emotion  that  I  feel  how  my  illness 
has  gained  upon  mo." 

In  a  moment  Claude  was  at  hor  side, 
and  had  her  thin,  white  hands  in  his. 
"  0  mudamo,"  ho  said,  looking  at  hor 
with  the  tenderest  pity,  "  if  you  could 
but  BOO  into  my  heart,  you  would  know 
how  deep,  how  sincere  is  my  interest 
for  you.  Can  I  help  youl  can  I  do 
aught  to  render  you  happier  1  Command 
me  as  you  would  a  brother." 

La  Marquise  drew  away  her  hands 
from  his  grasp,  and  leaning  back  on  hor 
sofa  she  looked  into  his  earnest,  noble 
face  with  an  expression  so  intense,  so 
inquiring,  so  full  of  devotion,  that  it 
was  like  a  revelation  to  Claude.  The  hot 
blood  rushed  to  his  head,  a  shadow 
seemed  to  gather  before  his  eyes,  and 
fVom  that  shadow  looked  the  white, 
passionate  face  of  Aim6e,  as  he  had  last 
seen*  her  before  she  disappeared  forever. 
And  when  La  Marquise  spoke,  her  voiee 
sounded  to  him  like  a  sad  song  of  child- 
hood brought  suddenly  back  to  memory 
after  a  long  lapse  of  years. 

"  M.  le  Comte,"  she  said,  in  an  even, 
oalm  voice,  tender  with  a  monotone  of 
sorrow  and  regret,  "your  kind  profes- 
sions of  interest  come  too  late,  nothing 
can  alleviate  my  suffering;  but  if 
anything  earthly  could  cure  me,  your 
friendship  and  brotherly  affection  would. 


I  have  reverenced  your  charactpr,  I 
havu  adniiroil  your  noble  sontinienta, 
your  pure  life  of  snorifiue,  and  your 
cffortH  fur  tho  good  of  others,  and  I 
have  long  deitired  to  win  your  ostcem. 
Once  it  might  have  saved  mo,  but  now 
it  is  too  late.  There  are  woiindx  that 
fricndHhip  cannot  heal,  still  it  may 
jnotho  tlioni.  Let  mo  do  something 
for  you  ;  in  that  way  you  may  grant  me 
a  reprieve,  you  may  give  nio  roHpito 
from  an  anxiety  that  is  devouring  mo. 
Permit  mo  to  use  what  power  I  possess 
with  the  members  of  the  government 
in  your  behalf.  You  have  so  far  disre- 
garded my  wumingH,  perhaps  y  u  have 
not  thought  yourself  in  sutticicnt  danger 
to  warrant  them.  But  I  have  not  exag- 
gerated ;  your  case  is  most  critical.  I 
implore  you  to  give  mo  some  guaranty 
that  you  will  leave  Paris,  and  retire 
from  all  your  political  associates ;  and 
that  you  will  neither  use  your  pen  nor 
your  influence  against  tho  present  ad- 
ministration. In  that  caso  it  may  not 
bo  too  lato  to  save  you." 

"  I  have  already  decided  to  leave 
Paris,"  replied  Claudo,  touched  to  tho 
heart  by  her  earnest  pleading,  "  but  I 
cannot  promise  all  you  ask.  I  suffer  to 
refuse  you,  still  I  must  be  true  to  my 
principles  at  any  cost.  I  must  support 
my  opinions,  oven  at  the  sacrifice  of  my 
life,  if  it  should  be  necessary.  As  long 
as  I  am  tortured  by  the  wrongs  and 
woes  of  humanity,  I  must  do  something 
in  their  behalf.  I  cannot  bo  intimidated 
by  the  despotism  of  a  government  that 
would  crush  the  truth." 

"  Then  I  can  do  nothing  1 "  said  La 
Marquise,  in  a  despairing  voice. 

"Yes,  madame,  you  can  do  much; 
you  can  lend  your  support  to  our  cause ; 
you  can  encourage  us  to  continue  strong 
and  faithftil,  during  the  struggle  that 
all  lovers  of  liberty  must  soon  engage 
in.  Our  nation  sleeps  in  security  over 
a  volcanic  fire  that  will  soon  burst  forth 
with  terrible  fury  and  devastation  ;  then 
we  shall  need  true  hearts  and  coura- 
geous souls  to  resist  tho  devouring 
flood." 

"Ah  that  I  might  do  something," 
cried  La  Marquise,  while  a  sudden  flash 
of  enthusiasm  illuminated  her  face  with 
a  wonderful  beauty  ;  then  it  faded  away, 
and  a  look  of  profound  dejection  suc- 


'«siS^^^A4ferfij5ife?AaSuyfeiSi^ 


1413 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


ceeded  it.  "  No,  no,  it  is  too  late  now. 
Once  my  soul  was  full  of  ardor,  once  I 
lunged  to  be  a  heroine,  but  it  was  some 
time  ago,  before  this  feebleness  came 
upon  me.  Still  I  have  strength  to  do 
something  for  you,  but  you  will  not 
permit  me.  0,  why  will  you  deny  me 
the  pleasure,  the  consolation,  of  trying 
to  serve  you  1 " 

"You  can  indeed  serve  me  if  you 
desire  to,  but  in  another  way,  by  assist- 
ing another  for  me,"  cried  Claude 
eagerly,  aa  he  thought  of  Celeste  and 
her  need  of  a  friend. 

"  Tell  me  how,  and  I  pledge  you  my 
word  to  devote  myself  to  your  wish- 
es." 

Then  Claude  opened  his  heart  to  her, 
and  told  her  of  his  former  love  for 
Celeste,  of  his  present  interest  in  her 
unhappy  fate,  and  of  his  anxiety  to 
discover  her  retreat,  that  he  might  be 
able  to  lighten  the  burdeu  of  her  life. 
The  propriety  of  employing  a  third 
person  had  never  before  occurred  to 
him  ;  now,  in  thinking  of  it,  it  seemed 
feasible  and  natural  that  a  woman  in 
the  position  of  La  Marquise,  with 
wealth  and  leisure  at  her  command, 
could  do  so  much  to  assist  these  two 
poor  women,  without  their  suspecting 
the  real  benefactor,  that  he  at  once 
told  her  of  his  plan  to  pmchase  Mon- 
thelon,  and  settle  it  upon  Celeste,  there- 
by placing  her  and  Elizabeth  beyond  the 
chance  of  necessity.  She  listened  to 
him  attentively,  though  with  increased 
pallor  and  sudden  spasms  of  pain,  that 
turned  her  quivering  lips  white ;  and 
when  he  had  told  her  all,  she  said, 
"  You  can  depend  upon  me.  I  will  do 
all  I  possibly  can  for  Lady  Courtnay. 
I  shall  learn  where  they  are  from  Sir 
Edward,  who,  I  am  confident,  will  not 
remain  away  long.  Rest  in  peace  ;  while 
I  live  she  shall  not  need  a  friend." 

Claude  poured  out  a  torrent  of  thanks 
from  the  overflowing  gratitude  of  his 
heart,  which  did  not  seem  to  render 
La  Marquise  any  happier.  On  the  con- 
trary, her  face  expressed  the  most  poig- 
nant suffering,  as  she  listened  to  him, 
and  her  voice  had  a  ring  of  deep  an- 
guish, as  she  cried  out,  "  Pray,  pray,  do 
not  thank  me." 

When,  after  some  further  conversa- 
tion, Claude  arose  to  leave.  La  Mar- 


quise said,  looking  at  him  anxiously 
"  Do  you  carry  arms,  M.  le  Comte  1 " 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  replied  Claude,  with 
a  smile  at  the  strange  question.  "  I 
have  never  thought  it  necessary  for  a 
gentleman  to  go  armed  like  a  highway 
robber." 

"  How  will  you  defend  yourself  if 
you  are  attacked  by  ruffians  1" 

"With  my  good  right  hand,  and  if 
that  fails  me  I  shall  trust  in  Provi- 
dence. In  any  case,  I  will  not  take 
life." 

"May  God  protect  you  then,"  she 
said  solemnly ;  "  and  if  harm  comes  to 
you,  remember  that  I  tried  to  save 
you." 

Claude  pressed  her  hand  fervently 
to  his  lips,  and  thanking  her  again  he 
left  her  with  a  lighter  heart  than  when 
he  had  entered  her  presence.  As  he 
turned  from  the  Rue  St.  Dominique,  the 
bell  of  St.  Sulpice  was  striking  mid- 
night. He  had  been  more  than  three 
hours  with  La  Marquise,  and  yet  the 
time  had  seemed  very  short.  He  could 
not  find  9,  fiacre,  so  he  walked  down  the 
Rue  Dauphine  toward  the  Pont  Neiif, 
thinking  of  his  conversation  with  the 
strangely  interesting  woman  who  seemed 
to  feel  such  an  anxiety  concerning  him. 
He  was  not  vain,  and  he  loved  Celeste 
too  well  to  cherish  any  warmer  senti- 
ment for  another  than  that  of  friend- 
ship ;  yet  he  knew  La  Marquise  enter- 
tained an  affection  for  him  as  extraordi- 
nary as  it  was  disinterested,  and  he 
also  knew  that  nothing  could  make  him 
waver  in  his  fidelity  to  that  adored 
being  who  filled  all  his  thoughts.  Still 
he  was  obliged  to  confess  that  this 
wonderful  woman  fascinated  him  in  a 
remarkable  manner.  "  She  is  a  mys- 
tery," he  thought ;  "  what  a  generous 
nature,  what  a  noble  character,  though 
warped  and  disfigured  by  pride*  and 
vanity ;  what  exaltation  of  spirit  min- 
gled with  morbid  fancies  and  unhealthy 
conceptions ;  a  sad  but  beautiful  wreck 
of  what  should  have  been  a  perfect 
woman.  While  I  looked  at  her  and 
talked  with  her  I  was  constantly  pos- 
sessed with  the  thought  of  one  the  ex- 
pression of  whose  face  is  becoming  oblit- 
erated from  my  memory  by  time  or  some 
confusion  of  resemblance ;  for  when  I 
think  uf   Aim^e,   La  Marquise  comes 


tig  at  him  anxionslj  ' 
has,  M.  le  Comte  1 " 
r  replied  Claude,  with 
strange  question.     "  i 
?ht  it  necessary  for  a 
Tarmed  like  a  highway 

|u  defend  yourself  if 

by  ruffians  1" 
right  hand,  and  if 

shall  trust  in  Provi- 
[case,  I  will  not  take 

lect  you  then,"  she 
and  if  harm  comes  to 
that  I  tried   to   save 

1  her  hand  fervently 
hanking  her  again  he 
ghter  heart  than  when 
her  presence.     As  he 
lue  St.  Dominique,  the 
)ice  was  striking  mid- 
been  more  than  three 
larquise,   and  yet  the 
very  short.     He  could 
so  he  walked  down  the 
oward  the  Pont  Neuf, 
conversation  with  the 
,ing  woman  who  seemed 
nxiety  concerning  him. 
,  and  he  loved  Celeste 
ish  any  warmer  senti- 
r  than  that  of  friend- 
Bw  La  Marquise  enter- 
n  for  him  as  extraordi- 
disinterested,  and   he 
)thing  could  make  him 
lelity  to  that  adored 
ill  his  thoughts.     Still 
to  confess   that    this 
I  fascinated  him  iu  a 
ler.     "  She  is  a  mys- 
it ;  "  what  a  generous 
)ble  character,  though 
gured    by  pride*  and 
iltation  of  spirit  min- 
faucies  and  unhealthy 
d  but  beautiful  wreck 
have  been   a  perfect 
[   looked   at  hor  and 
[  was  constantly  pos- 
lought  of  one  the  ex- 
face  is  becoming  oblit- 
jmory  by  time  or  some 
nblance  ;  for  when   I 
La  Maixjuise  comes 


mumlm 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


143 


before  mo ;  and  when  I  think  of  La 
Marquiao,  the  figure  of  Aim^e  starts  up, 
sad,  passionate,  and  reproachful,  as  she 
stood  in  tho  shadow-liaunted  twilight, 
so  long  ago."  So  musing,  he  crossed 
tho  Pout  Neuf  to  tho  statue  of  Henry 
IV.  There  he  paused  for  a  few  moments 
to  look  over  the  parapet  into  tho  Seine, 
with  its  ceaseless,  solemn  flow,  its  in- 
sensible, uupitying  progress  toward  tho 
sea,  over  the  tears,  the  moans  of  despair, 
tho  cries  of  anguish,  that  are  hidden 
and  silouced  within  its  relentless  bosom. 
Far  below,  like  a  procession  of  gi^ints, 
glided  tho  shadows  of  the  numerous 
piers,  sombre  and  mournful,  into 
distance ;  while  the  stars  of  heaven 
blended  mysteriously  with  the  far-off 
lights  that  marked  tho  winding  of  the 
river.  The  damp  air  blew  over  his  face 
with  a  sudden  chill,  a  sickening  memory 
made  the  blood  curdle  in  his  veins. 
Tho  yellow  water,  flowing  on  in  the 
flickering  glare  of  the  gaslight,  whirled 
and  eddied  over  some  crimson  body 
beneath  it.  A  white  face  with  black 
tangled  hair  gleamed  for  a  moment  out 
of  the  darkness,  and  then  disappeared. 
It  was  the  body  of  a  poor  suicide, 
wrapped  in  a  crimson  shawl,  floating 
down  among  the  shadows  of  tho  piers  ; 
but  it  seemed  to  Claude  as  though  the 
ghastly  face  of  Aimee  had  looked  at 
him  reproachfully,  from  under  the 
shadow  of  the  cliff  at  Clermont.  Some- 
thing startled  him,  and  turning  his 
head  from  his  absorbed  contemplation 
of  the  river,  ho  saw  by  his  side,  almost 
looking  over  his  shoulder,  the  wild  eyes, 
tho  haggard,  never-to-be-forgotten  fea- 
tures of  P^re  Benoit,  while  at  the  same 
moment  two  men,  wrapped  iu  dark 
mantles,  sprang  upon  him  from  behind 
the  statue  of  Henry  IV.  For  an  instant 
he  was  so  surprised  as  to  be  powerless, 
then  he  saw  that  if  he  hesitated  for  a 
moment  he  was  lost.  So  he  turned, 
square  upon  his  assailants,  and  bracing 
himself  against  tho  parapet  of  the 
bridge  he  dealt  an  effectual  blow 
straight  between  the  eyes  of  tho  ruf- 
fian who  was  endeavoring  to  pinion  his 
arms.  He  staggered  for  a  moment,  then 
fell  heavily,  and  lay  as  though  uncon- 
scious ;  while  P^re  Benoit  and  the 
other  sprang  upon  their  victim,  one 
trying  to  cover  his  mouth,  the  other  to 


fasten  his  hands.  The  struggle  was 
short  but  terrible ;  and  it  might  have 
ended  fatally  for  Claude,  if  the  sharp 
report  of  a  pistol  and  the  heavy  fall  of 
Pere  Benoit  had  not  alarmed  the  other 
ruffian,  who  turned  and  fled.  Then  he 
saw  that  the  first,  whom  he  had  sup- 
posed unconscious,  had  risen  to  his  feet 
and  was  also  flying  with  the  other.  It 
was  he  then  who  had  fired  the  shot, 
designing  it  for  Claude,  but  instead  it 
had  struck  his  accomplice,  and  laid  him 
helpless  at  the  feet  of  his  intended 
victim. 

Tho  whole  scene  had  been  so  sudden, 
so  short,  and  so  confounding  in  the  result, 
that  Claude  stood  looking  at  the  pros- 
trate man  like  one  bewildered,  until  the 
hurrying  feet  of  approaching  gendarmes, 
whom  the  report  of  a  pistol  had  attract- 
ed to  tho  spot,  aroused  him,  and  he 
bent  over  the  suffering  man  and  raised 
his  head.  The  full  light  of  the  lamp 
fell  upon  his  ghastly  face  and  upon  a 
red  stream  trickling  over  his  hands 
that  were  clasped  on  his  chest.  He 
was  conscious,  and  his  wide-open  eyes 
were  full  of  anxious  intelligence  as  he 
fixed  them  upon  the  face  of  Claude,  say- 
ing in  a  clear,  strong  voice,  "  Take  me 
home,  take  me  at  onoe.  I  have  much 
to  say  to  Madame  la  Marquise." 

"Madame  la  Marquise  de  Ventadourl" 
inquired  Claude,  as  he  beckoned  to  a 
gendarme  hurrying  toward  him. 

"  Yes,  I  am  her  servant,  Justin,  and 
I  must  see  her  before  I  die.  It  will  not 
be  directly,  but  it  will  be  soon."  And  he 
struggled  to  his  feet  and  looked  wildly 
around  him. 

At  that  moment  two  gendarmes  had 
arrived  upon  the  scene,  and  after  a  hur- 
ried explanation  from  Claude,  one  ran 
for  a  litter  to  the  nearest  caserne,  while 
the  others  tried  to  stop  the  crimson 
tide  that  was  rapidly  exhausting  the 
strength  of  the  miserable  man. 

As  quickly  as  possible  they  arrived 
with  the  litter,  and  placing  their  bur- 
den upon  it,  the  bearers  turned  toward 
the  Rue  St.  Dominique ;  while  Claude, 
silent  and  apprehensive,  walked  by  their 
side,  thinking  of  the  reality  of  his  dan- 
ger, the  clairvoyant  warning  of  La 
Marquise,  the  relentless  bate  of  this 
mysterious  Pire  Benoit,  who  declared 
himself  to  be  a  servant  of  the  woman 


Br- 


1 


144 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


who  hod  tried  to  save  him.  What  could 
it  all  mean,  and  what  motive  had  this 
man  for  his  persecution  and  enmitj  ? 


PART  EIGHTH. 

801IETHIN0   MORE  OF  OENEVI^VB  OAUTIER. 

When  they  reached  the  chamber  of 
the  wounded  man  in  the  Hdtel  Yenta- 
dour,  the  servants  gathered  around 
him  with  surprised  and  curious  looks. 
Yes,  it  was  Justin,  the  taciturn,  morose 
disagreeable  Justin,  who,  though  appar- 
ently the  confidential,  servant  of  La 
Marquise,  was  in  reality  disliked  by  her 
as  much  as  he  was  by  all  the  domestics. 
There  was  no  doubt  as  to  his  identity, 
but  there  was  some  as  to  his  honesty 
when  they  saw  that  he  was  disguised, 
or  perhaps  I  should  say  that  he  was  out 
of  his  disguise,  at  least  to  Claude ;  for 
his  handsome  livery  and  white  curling 
wig  made  him  less  himself  than  the 
dress  he  now  wore,  the  threadbare,  dirty, 
blood-stained  dress  of  a  priest.  But  the 
servants  of  La  Marquise  had  never 
known  him  as  P^re  Bcuoit,  so  one  can 
understand  their  astonishment  when 
they  looked  upon  him  in  this  new  char- 
acter. 

"  Ge  garpn  est  «»  eoquin/"  said 
the  footman  to  whom  he  had  been  im- 
pertinent that  same  evening,  and  who 
disliked  him  even  more  than  did  the 
others.  "A  fine  thing,  a  servant  dis- 
guised as  a  priest,  or  a  priest  disguised 
as  a  servant,  I  don't  know  which,  but 
either  is  bad  enough.  I  always  sus- 
pected him  for  a  knave,  and  uo  doubt 
that  at  last  he  has  got  his  just  deserts ; 
but  I  will  bring  a  doctor  nevertheless." 
So  he  went  out  and  left  the  other  ser- 
vants to  strip  off  the  disguise  of  the 
wounded  man  and  place  him  comforta- 
bly in  his  bed. 

When  Claude  entered,  he  learned 
that  La  Marquise  had  not  yet  retired, 
and  that  she  would  see  him  again  in  her 
bovdoir.  He  found  her  very  much  ex- 
cited, and  her  excit«ment  seemed  to 
increase  when  he  recounted  to  her  his 
strange  adventure,  and  entreated  her,  if 
possible,  to  throw  some  light  upon  a 
jnystcry  that  perplexed    him    beyond 


expression.  La  Marquise  listened  to 
him  with  the  most  marked  agitation, 
while  he  also  told  her  briefly  of  his  for- 
mer knowledge  of  this  man  as  a  priest, 
under  the  patronage  of  the  then  Arch- 
deacon, and  of  his  unaccountable  enmi- 
ty toward  him,  without  any  apparent 
reason  ;  of  his  effort  to  take  his  life  at 
Clermont,  and  of  his  attack  on  the  Pont 
Neuf,  and  then  begged  her  to  explain 
to  him  why  it  was  that  he  found  this 
dangerous  man  domesticated  in  her 
household. 

"What  you  tell  me  more  than  sur- 
prises me,"  she  cried  as  she  paced  the 
floor  excitedly,  her  cheeks  crimson  and 
her  eyes  flaming.  Every  sign  of  languor 
and  weakness  had  disappeared,  and  she 
seemed  to  be  struggling  to  control  a 
rising  wrath.  "  I  cannot  conceive  what 
reason  this  man  can  have  to  dislike  you 
to  such  an  extent  as  to  seek  your  life. 
It  is  indeed  a  mystery  to  me.  When  I 
married  M.  le  Marquis,  I  found  him 
among  my  husband's  servants  and  fa- 
vored with  his  confidence.  For  certain 
reasons  which  7  canrot  explain  I  re- 
tained him  ii<  A  >v  >;ervice  after  the 
death  of  Le  M-^  -i^  Until  now  I 
have  always  i  u';  >i.m  devoted  and 
faithful,  though  eccentric  to  such  a  de- 
gree that  I  have  sometimes  thought 
him  insane.  I  can  only  account  for 
this  strange  occurrence  in  one  way  ;  he 
is  a  spy  of  the  government,  and  a  tool 
of  the  secret  police.  It  was  their  inten- 
tion to  abduct  you  and  imprison  you, 
without  accusation  or  trial.  Ah,  I  know 
how  tae  demons  carry  on  their  work  1 
You  would  not  have  been  the  first  who 
has  mysteriously  disappeared  from  the 
world,  to  drag  out  years  in  a  prison 
cell.  It  was  because  of  such  a  fear  that 
I  warned  you.  This  pure  administra- 
tion prefers  to  dispose  of  its  enemies  in 
a  cowardly,  treacherous  manner.  But 
if  it  fails  with  such  means,  then  it  re- 
sorts to  others.  It  arrests  noble,  truth- 
ful men  in  brond  daylight,  denounces 
them  as  traitors,  drags  them  off  to  a 
mock  trial,  condemns  them,  and  plunges 
them  into  La  Boquette  for  an  indefinite 
period.  You  have  escaped  this  once, 
M.  le  Comte,  but  the  next  time  you  will 
be  less  fortunate.  Even  the  death  of 
this  miserable  man,  who  is  evidently 
employed  Against  you,   will  not  siivo 


[arquise  listened    to 

)8t  marked  agitation, 

her  briefly  of  his  for- 

tbis  man  as  a  priest, 

^ge  of  the  then  Arch- 

uuaccountublo  cnmi- 

Ivitbout  any  apparent 

[brt  to  take  his  life  at 

lis  attick  on  the  Pont 

legged  her  to  explain 

las  that  he  found  this 

I  domesticated    in    her 

111  me  more  than  sur- 

'ied  as  she  paced  the 

■  cheeks  crimson  and 
Every  sign  of  languor 
disappeared,  and  she 

niggling  to  control  a 
cannot  conceive  what 

iaii  have  to  dislike  you 
as  to  seek  your  life. 

stery  to  me.  When  I 
Marquis,  I  found  him 
Eind's  servants  and  fa- 
mfldence.     For  certain 

canrot  explain  I   re- 

>v  service  after  the 

•j;      Until    now  I 

lv,  >i.m  devoted  and 
eccentric  to  such  a  de- 
re   sometimes  thought 

can  only  account  for 
rrence  in  one  way  ;  he 
^vemment,  and  a  tool 
ce.  It  was  their  iuten- 
^ou  and  imprison  you, 
tn  or  trial.    Ah,  I  know 

carry  on  their  work ! 
Ave  been  the  first  who 

disappeared  from  the 
out  years  in  a  prison 
luse  of  such  a  fear  that 
This  pure  administra- 
spose  of  its  enemies  in 
:hcrous  manner.  But 
iich  means,  then  it  re- 
It  arrests  noble,  trutb- 
d  daylight,  denounces 

drags  them  off  to  a 
nns  them,  and  plunges 
luette  for  nn  indefinite 
ve  escaped  this  once, 
the  next  time  you  will 
Even  the  death  of 
lan,  who  is  evidently 
t  you,  will   not  siivo 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


145 


yon.  Therefore  I  entreat  you  to  fly, 
to  fly  nt  once.  To  think  that  one  of 
my  servants  should  betray  you  to 
these  ruflians  maddens  mo.  Ungrate- 
ful wretch  !  dastardly  villain  !  If  he 
escapes  death,  he  will  not  escape  my 
punishment." 

Claude  looked  at  her,  almost  alarmed 
at  her  fury.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  emit 
sparks  of  electric  light,  her  teeth  were 
pressed  into  her  undorlip,  and  the  veins 
stood  out  like  knotted  cords  on  hor 
white  forehead,  while  her  hands  were 
rigidly  clenched  with  a  vice-like  force. 
"  Calm  yourself,  I  implore  you,"  he  said 
soothingly.  ' '  Do  not  waste  your  strength 
and  indignation  on  the  miserable  man 
who  is  expiating  his  sin  with  suffering 
and  death." 

"Ah,  death  is  too  good  for  such  a 
traitor!  I  should  like  to  torture  him 
with  the  pains  of  a  thousand  deaths ! " 
she  cried  with  a  frenzy  of  anger,  pacing 
the  floor,  and  grinding  her  teeth  as  she 
repeated  it  over  and  over. 

"  This  excitement  will  kill  you,"  said 
Claude  imploringly,  for  he  was  now 
thoroughly  distressed  and  alarmed  at 
the  tempest  the  news  of  the  attack  bad 
raised,  and  he  feared  the  most  injurious 
consequences  to  one  in  her  delicate 
health.  "He  should  not  have  been 
brought  here  to  disturb  you.  I  regret 
it  deeply,  but  he  implored  so  to  see  you, 
saying  he  had  something  important  to 
communicate,  and  it  seemed  the  nearest 
shelter  for  him." 

"Something  to  communicate  1  Ah, 
perhaps  he  will  reveal  the  whole  plot. 
The  Archbishop  of  Rouen  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  this,  I  suspect,  and  I  would  give 
much  to  be  sure.  He  did  well  when  he 
wished  to  be  brought  here.  I  will  go 
to  him  directly."  And  she  turned  ex- 
citedly toward  the  door,  where  she  was 
met  by  her  maid. 

"The  doctor  wishes  to  speak  with 
you,  madame.  He  has  dressed  the 
wound  of  Justin,  and  he  says  he  cannot 
last  until  morning.  They  have  sent  for 
a  notary  to  take  down  a  deposition  he 
wishes  to  make.  Will  you  see  the  doc- 
tor, madame  t" 

"Yes,  send  him  here." 

A  toll,  thin  man  entered,  and  bowing 
low  to  La  Marquise,  he  said,  "  My  pa- 
tient is  as  comfortable  as  possible,  but 

10 


sinking  fast.  I  cannot  find  the  ball, 
although  I  have  probed  the  wound, 
which  is  near  the  carotid  artery ;  an 
eighth  of  an  inch  farther,  and  in»tant 
death  would  have  been  the  result,  ma- 
dame ;  a  terrible  wound,  a  mortal 
wound," 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  La  Marquise, 
in  a  hard,  sharp  voice ;  "  such  a  wretch 
deserves  to  die." 

•'  But,  madame,  his  case  is  —  " 

"  Never  mind  his  case.  I  assure  you 
I  don't  care  in  the  least  how  much  he 
suffers ;  I  tell  you  ho  deserves  it.  What 
have  you  to  say  to  mo  beside  giving  mo 
a  synopsis  of  his  easel  I  tell  you  I 
don't  want  to  hear  anything  about  it, 
only  that  he  suffers,  that  is  all." 

The  surgeon  looked  at  her  and  then 
at  Claude,  as  though  he  would  like  to 
ask  if  Madame  la  Marquise  was  insane, 
but  dared  not ;  then  ho  stammered  out, 
"  My  message,  madame,  from  the  dying 
man,  is  that  he  wishes  to  see  you  and 
M.  le  Comte  de  Clermont  —  I  presume 
this  is  M.  le  Comte,"  bowing  to  Claude, 

—  "  in  the  presence  of  a  notary,  with- 
out other  witnesses." 

"  Very  well.     You  may  go." 

And  the  doctor  bowed  himself  out, 
thinking  as  he  went,  "A  rapid  devel- 
opment of  insanity,  brought  on  by  over- 
excitement,  with  a  febrile  tendency  to 
the  brain." 

Then  La  Marquise  turned  to  Claude, 
and  holding  out  her  hand  she  said 
more  calmly,  "  Come  with  me ;  I  shall 
need  you  to  support  me,  for  I  have  a 
foreboding  of  something  that  will  wring 
my  soul." 

When  they  entered  the  room  where 
lay  the  wounded  man,  and  the  gaze  of 
La  Marquise  fell  upon  his  ghastly  face, 
his  wild  eyes,  and  his  clipped  gray  hair, 

—  for  all  disguises  were  now  thrown 
aside,  and  he  presented  almost  the  same 
appearance  as  ho  did  on  that  morning 
when,  as  an  escaped  convict,  he  first 
appeared  before  Fabien  on  the  tour  de 
burre  of  Notre  Dame,  —  she  uttered  a 
sharp  cry,  and  falling  heavily  into  a 
chair  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands,  as  though  she 
could  not  endure  the  sight. 

A  notary  sat  at  a  table,  with  a  paper 
spread  before  him,  and  a  pen  in  his 
fingers,  ready  to  begin  his  worL    Claude 


Jd 


U6 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


t 


stood  near  La  Marquise,  with  folded 
amis.  The  faint  flamo  of  the  shaded 
lamp  threw  a  circle  of  light  over  the 
paper  and  hands  of  the  notary,  and  all 
else  was  in  half-shade.  A  profound 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  labored 
breathing  of  the  dying,  filled  the  room, 
and  rendered  the  scene  solemnly  im- 
pressive. 

"  I  am  ready  for  your  deposition," 
said  the  notary. 

"  I  am  also  ready."  And  the  hollow 
eyes  turned  with  an  intense  gaze  upon 
the  two  figures  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
while  he  said  in  a  clear,  calm  voice, 
unlike  a  dying  man,  "  My  name  is 
Justin  Gautier.  I  was  bom  in  Bourg 
Dieu,  D^partement  de  I'lndre,  in  the 
year  1 7 — .  My  only  surviving  parent 
died  and  left  me  an  orphan  at  twelve 
years  of  age ;  and  I  was  then  adopted 
into  the  family  of  my  uncle,  Louis 
Gautier,  of  Bourg  Dieu.  He  had  but 
one  child,  a  daughter,  named  Ge- 
nevidve  Marie."  Claude  started,  and 
leaned  forward  with  an  expression  of 
the  deepest  interest.  "She  was  two 
years  older  than  myself,  and  most 
beautiful  I  loved  her,  and  she  was 
my  affianced  wife.  Her  father  died 
suddenly  from  grief  at  the  failure  of  a 
speculation  that  ruined  him,  leaving 
us  both  without  a  sou.  I  left  Bourg 
Dieu  to  seek  my  fortune,  and  Genevieve 
went  to  Paris,  where  her  wonderful 
voice,  remarkable  grace,  and  beauty  pro- 
cured for  her  a  situation  as  second 
soprano  in  the  Italian  opera.  There 
she  was  persecuted  by  the  attentions 
of  the  former  Comte  de  Clermont ;  but 
being  virtuous  as  well  as  beautiful,  she 
resisted  all  his  advances,  until,  over- 
come by  his  passion,  he  offered  her 
marriage.  She  loved  ^im;  he  was  a 
noble,  rich  and  handsome,  and  I  was 
but  a  poor,  mean  clod,  unfit  to  mate 
with  such  perfection.  Although  she 
deserted  me  for  him,  God  is  my  witness 
that  I  never  reproached  her.  I  loved 
her  too  well  to  stand  between  her  and 
fortune.  But  flrom  the  moment  T  knew 
she  had  given  her  heart  to  the  Comte 
de  Clermont,  I  hated  him  with  an  in- 
tense :hatred.  ,They  were  married  pri- 
vately in  St.  Etienne,  Bourg  Dieu,  and 
I  saw  her  leave  the  church  as  Comtesse 
(de  Oletmont.    The  sight  changed  my 


very  nature.  I  had  been  a  simple, 
gentle  creature  until  then.  Afterward 
I  became  reckless,  and  indifferent  to 
everything.  I  fled  from  Franco  to 
America,  not  caring  where  I  went  or 
how  I  passed  my  days.  Ten  years  after 
the  marriage  of  Geneviive  Gautier,  and 
while  I  was  still  in  the  wildb  of  Amer- 
ica, I  was  told  that  a  Frenchman  was 
dying  in  our  camp,  and  as  I  was  a 
fellow-countryman  he  wished  to  see  me. 
I  went  to  him,  and  found  that  he  was 
very  near  eternity,  and  sufi'oring  from 
terrible  remorse  of  conscience,  from 
which  he  could  find  no  relief,  as  there 
was  not  a  priest  within  hundreds  of 
miles  to  listen  to  his  confession.  After 
talking  with  him  for  some  time,  I  drew 
from  him  the  story  of  his  crime.  He  was 
Andre  R^naud,  and  hod  been  valet  and 
confidential  servant  to  M.  le  Comte  de 
Clermont,  and  was  one  of  the  witnesses 
of  his  marriage  with  Genevieve  Gautier. 
Controlling  myself  as  well  as  I  possibly 
could,  I  listened  to  the  story  of  her 
desertion,  the  unfortunate  burning  of 
the  records  at  Chfiteauroux,  the  death 
of  the  Curi  who  performed  the  marriage 
service,  the  destruction  of  the  church 
record,  the  death  of  the  other  witness, 
and  lastly  of  the  bribe  offered  by  the 
Count  to  this  dying  man  to  leave  the 
country  forever  after  he  bad  destroyed, 
as  he  thought,  the  copies  of  the  certifi- 
cates. I  cannot  describe  my  exultation 
when  I  learned,  before  he  finished  his 
confession,  that  the  copies  of  the  cer- 
tificates had  not  been  destroyed  as  btip- 
poscd ;  that  this  vile  accomplice  had 
hidden  them  with  a  number  of  letters 
in  a  secret  panel  that  he  had  discov- 
ered in  an  old  cabinet  at  Clermont,  for 
the  purpose  of  extorting  more  money 
from  his  mast«r  at  some  future  time. 
Therefore  the  records  were  still  in  ex- 
istence, and  he  had  determined  to 
return  to  France  to  make  use  of  them, 
when  death  overtook  him  and  frus- 
trated his  plans.  Without  leading  the 
dying  man  to  suspect  that  I  had  any 
special  interest  in  his  narrative,  I  drew 
from  him  all  the  particulars.  And  be- 
fore his  body  was  cold,  I  was  on  my 
way  to  the  coast,  where  I  intended  to 
embarit  at  once  for  France.  When  I 
reached  Ch&teauroux,  I  found  the  man's 
story  of  the  desertion  substantially  true. 


lad  been    a   simple, 
11  then.     Afterward 
and  indifferent   to 
from    Franco    to 
ig  where  I  went  or 
ys.     Ton  years  after 
neviive  Gantier,  and 
the  wilds  of  Amer- 
it  a  Frenchman  was 
p,  and   as  I   was  a 
ho  wished  to  see  me. 
found  that  he  was 
,  and  sufi'oring  from 
of   conscience,   from 
d  no  relief,  as  there 
within  hundreds  of 
lis  confession.     After 
or  some  time,  I  drew 
of  his  crime.    He  was 
d  had  been  valet  and 
it  to  M.  le  Comto  de 
one  of  the  witnesses 
th  Genevieve  Gautier. 
as  well  as  I  possibly 
to  the  story  of  her 
fortunate  burning  of 
ifiteauroux,  the  death 
erformed  the  marriage 
uction  of  the  church 
of  the  other  witness, 
bribe  offered  by  the 
ing  man  to  leave  the 
^r  he  bad  destroyed, 
5  copies  of  the  certifi- 
lescribe  my  exultation 
lefore  he  finished  his 
he  copies  of  the  cer- 
leen  destroyed  as  bnp- 
vile  accomplice  had 
.  a  ntmiber  of  letters 
that  he  had  discov- 
}inet  at  Clermont,  for 
storting  more  money 
at  some  future  time, 
ords  were  still  in  ex- 
had    determined    to 
to  make  use  of  them, 
■took   him    and  frus- 
Without  leading  the 
speot  that  I  had  any 
his  narrative,  I  drew 
particulars.     And  be- 
s  cold,  I  was  on  my 
where  I  intended  to 
for  France.     When  I 
lux,  I  found  the  man's 
ion  substantially  truo. 


■IHniiiiHi 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


14f 


Poor  Oeneviive,  but  a  wreck  of  her 
former  self,  was  living  in  poverty,  cared 
for  by  a  faithful  maid,  who  hod  never 
deserted  her.  And  her  son,  the  lawful 
Comte  de  Clermont,  was  a  charity- 
scholar  in  the  College  of  St.  Vincent. 
As  I  said,  she  was  but  a  wreck.  Her 
mind  was  weakened  and  her  health 
shattered  to  a  fearful  degree.  Still, 
she  recognized  lae,  and  with  her  poor, 
weak  arms  around  my  neck,  she  im- 
plored me  to  do  something  for  her 
child.  When  I  looked  upon  the  ruin 
of  my  idol,  my  beautiful,  adored  Gene- 
vieve, I  took  a  solemn  oath  that  J 
would  be  revenged  upon  the  man  who 
had  wrought  this  evil.  I  was  detei'- 
mined  by  some  means  to  gain  possession 
of  these  papers,  and  thereby  to  expose 
the  crime  of  M.  le  Comte,  and  reinstall 
his  wife  and  child.  My  first  plan,  that 
I  might  not  be  separated  from  Gene- 
vieve, was  to  marry  the  good  girl  who 
had  devoted  herself  to  her  mistress  so 
unselfishly.  Then  I  removed  to  Ma- 
launay,  which  was  near  enough  to 
Clermont  for  my  purpose,  and  too  far 
away  to  cr  to  suspicion.  It  is  need- 
less to  say  liuw  often  I  tried  to  gain 
admittance  to  the  ch&teau  of  Clermont, 
that  I  might  search  the  cabinet  for  the 
papers,  nor  how  often  I  was  unsuccessful, 
for  the  greatest  care  was  necessary  that 
I  should  not  excite  suspicion.  In  the 
midst  of  my  efforts,  poor  Genevieve  died 
vithout  the  pain  of  knowing  how  unfor- 
tunate I  was,  for  the  last  few  months  of 
her  life  were  passed  in  a  gentle  insanity, 
in  which  she  believed  herself  to  be  liv- 
ing over  her  days  of  happiness  with  the 
false  man  she  still  adored.  Less  than 
two  years  after  her  death,  M.  le  Comte 
de  Clermont  married  again,  and  brought 
a  bride  to  the  oh&teau.  I  waited  un- 
til a  son  was  bom  of  that  union,  then  I 
thought  my  time  was  come  to  have  my 
revenge.  I  made  another  daring  effort 
to  gain  access  to  the  old  cabinet,  but 
fiuled  again,  just  missing  detection, 
which  would  have  ruined  all.  After 
this  ill  success  I  was  somewhat  discour- 
aged, and  thought  it  better  to  leav  ,hat 
part  of  the  country  for  a  while  ;  so  I  re- 
turned to  Ch&teauroux  and  settled  down 
to  a  peaceable  life  with  my  good  wife, 
whom  I  esteemed  and  loved  for  her  de- 
votion to  Geuevidve.   We  were  poor,  for 


I  had  earned  but  little  during  the  time 
I  had  lived  near  Clermont,  and  when  I 
became  the  father  of  a  sweet  little  girl 
I  felt  that  I  must  devote  myself  to  suiue 
serious  occupation  to  provide  for  lier ; 
but  dearly  ns  I  loved  her,  I  was  still 
haunted  by  the  desire  to  fulfil  my  oath 
to  Geuevidve,  and  to  lie  revenged  on  the 
Count  of  Clermont.  At  last  I  could  eu- 
dure  inaction  no  longer.  I  started  again 
for  Rouen,  leaving  my  wife  and  child 
at  Ch&teauroux.  One  night,  determined 
to  accomplish  my  design  then  or  never, 
like  a  thief  I  broke  into  the  ch&teau  of 
Clermont,  and  gained  access  to  the  room 
where  the  cabinet  stood,  and  even  had 
broken  a  lock  to  one  of  the  doors,  when 
I  was  surprised  by  the  servants.  I  re- 
sisted, but  was  overpowered,  imprisoned, 
tried,  and  sentenced  to  the  galleys  for 
fifteen  years.  Without  a  farewell  to 
my  wife  and  child,  I  began  my  living 
death.  For  four  years  I  endured  it,  ex- 
isting on  the  hope  of  seeing  my  chi'd 
again ;  it  was  that  hope  that  kept  mj 
alive.  At  the  end  of  that  time  an  oppor- 
tunity offered  and  I  escaped.  I  went 
back  to  Ch&teauroux.  My  wife  had  been 
dead  for  more  than  a  year,  my  poor 
child  was  living  with  people  I  despised. 
I  stole  her  and  fled  with  her  like  a 
criminal,  determined  to  go  again  to 
Rouen  and  find  the  son  of  Geuevidve, 
who  was  then  a  priest  in  the  college  of 
St  Vincent,  and,  after  telling  him  all  I 
knew,  to  leave  him  to  work  out  his  own 
revenge,  while  I  fled  to  another  country 
with  my  child.  I  reached  Rouen  half 
dead  from  hunger  and  weariness,  only 
to  discover  that  I  was  pursued.  The 
cathedral  was  the  only  place  that  offered 
a  refuge.  I  entered  it,  and  hoping  to 
conceal  myself  I  mounted  to  the  bell 
tower ;  but  there  I  was  followed  by  the 
officers,  who  arrested  me  and  dragged 
me  away  to  another  imprisonment  more 
dreadful  than  the  first.  I  left  my  child 
in  the  care  of  a  priest  whom  I  found  on 
the  platform  of  the  tower.  His  heart  was 
filled  with  pity  for  me,  and  he  promised 
to  protect  tho  unfortunate  little  crear 
ture  who  betrayed  her  father  by  point- 
ing out  to  the  officers  his  hiding-place. 
The  agony  of  being  captured  and  taken 
back  to  my  dreadful  prison  was  nothing 
in  comparison  with  the  thought  that 
my  own  child  did  not  love  me,  nay,  that 


'1 


us 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


8lic  feared  mo,  Imtcd  me,  nnd  betrayed 
inc."     Hero  the  voice  of  tho  Buftcring 
mnn  took  sucli  a  tone  of  sharp  anguisli, 
that  La  Maniuiso  trembled  and  cowered 
liko  one  smitten  with  sudden  fear,  and 
Claude  groaned  heavily,  wlulo  the  notarj' 
laid  down  his  pen  and  wiped  his  eyes  as 
if  his  sight  was  dim.     "  I  went  back  to 
prison  hopeless.     I   no  longer  resisted 
my  fate.     I  endured  tho  remainder  of 
my  term  in  sullen  silence.     But  when  I 
found  myself  free  again,  hope  revived 
within  me,  and  I  tunied  my  weary  feet 
again  toward  tho  spot  where  I  had  loft 
my  child.   I  arrived  one  night  in  Rouen, 
hungry,  snflTering,  and  ill,  but  I  did  not 
know  how  or  where  to  find  her,  for  I 
did  not  even  know  tho  name  of  the 
man  with  whom  I  had  left  her.     I  felt 
the  old  desire  to  see  Clermont  again.    A 
servant  in  the  town  told  me  that  tho 
Count  had  been  dead  for  years,  and  that 
his  son  lived  at  Clermont, — his  son  who 
had  usurped  tho  place  of  tho  lawful 
heir,  tho  child  of  Genevieve  Gautier. 
Full  of  the  old  determination  once  more, 
I  entered  the  grounds  of  Clermont.     A 
lighted  window  and  tho  sound  of  music 
attracted  me.     I  looked  in  and  there  I 
saw  my  child,  grown  to  a  lovely  maiden, 
dancing  like  a  fairy  with  bright  eyes 
and  smiling  mouth.   My  love  did  not  de- 
ceive me,  I  knew  it  was  my  child,  my 
Aim6e.     0  my  God,  how  my  heart  ex- 
ulted to  BOO  her  bo  beautifltl ! " 

"  Have  pity  on  me,  have  pity  on  me !" 
cried  La  Marquise,  suddenly  falling  on 
her  knees  before  the  bed,  while  she  ex- 
tended her  hands  toward  the  dying  man. 
"  0,  I  remember  it  all !  I  remember 
how  I  treated  you  with  scorn  and  con- 
tempt." 

"Aim^e,  is  it  Aimiel"  exclaimed 
Claude,  looking  at  her  with  horror  and 
surprise,  like  one  who,  if  he  should  see  a 
corpse  suddenly  arise  and  stand  before 
him,  would  forget  all  else  in  the  terror 
ocoasionei.  by  the  shock. 

"  Yes,  it  is  Aiiaie,"  she  said,  raising 
her  face  to  his ;  "  look  at  me  closely  and 
yon  will  perhaps  see  in  my  changed 
features  some  traces  of  Aim^e.  Yes  La 
Marquise  do  Ventadour  is  Aim^e,  the 
child  that  Fabien  saved  from  want  and 
suffering.  And  the  convict  Vhre  Be- 
noit  and  Justin  the  servant  are  one  and 
the  same,  and  her  father,  —  her  father 


whom  she  betrayed,  and  whom  siio 
scorned  and  insulted  when  ho  returneil 
from  his  long  imprisonment,  and  knelt 
at  her  feet  imploring  her  pity." 

"  My  child,  my  child,  do  not  reproach 
yourself,  you  did  not  know  I  was  your 
father."  And  tho  dying  mnn  ntretched 
out  one  thin  hand  toward  her.  Ho  could 
not  reach  her  head,  and  his  extended 
hand  fell  helpless.  La  Marquise  seized 
it  and  pressed  it  to  her  heart  and  then 
to  her  lips,  covering  it  with  tears  and 
kisses. 

"  No,  no,  I  did  not  understand  it,  my 
heart  was  false  to  me,  I  was  born  to 
curse  those  who  love  mo.  0  my  father, 
but  just  now  I  rejoiced  in  your  suffer- 
ing, I  wished  a  thousand  tortures  to 
come  upon  you ;  forgive  me,  and  bless 
me.  Do  not  remember  my  wrongs 
against  you." 

"This  atones  for  all.  I  have  not 
deserved  this.  Is  it  true,  or  is  it  ti 
dream,  that  my  child  calls  mo  father  1 " 
"I  implore  you  not  to  excite  mon- 
sieur," said  the  notary  with  a  troubled 
face,  "  he  has  not  finished  his  deposition, 
and  his  strength  is  failing  fast." 

"It   is  true,  go   on;   I  will  try  to 
gather  my  feeble  senses.     Aim6e,  hold 
my  hand.    This  is  what  I  would  say. 
I  gainad  access  to  Clermont,  I  searched 
tho  cabinet,  but  I  found  nothing.     The 
man  had  deceived  me,  or  tho  papers  had 
been  discovered  by  another  and  removed 
from  their  hiding-place.    Come  nearer, 
M.  le  Comte  do  Clermont,  and  listen  to 
my  last  words;  the  words  of  a  dying 
man  cannot  bo  false.     I  have  hated 
you,  I  have  plotted  against  you  with 
the  son  of  Genevieve  Gautier.   We  have 
tried  to  ruin  you,  because  you  were  tho 
son  of  the  man  who  crushed  the  sweet- 
est flower  that  ever  bloomed;  her  son 
and  her  lover  have  tried  to  avenge  her 
wrongs.      We  have  made  you  suffer, 
we  have  dishonored  you,  we  have  driven 
you  from  your  inheritance,  but  we  have 
failed  to  remove  the  stain  from  tho 
name  of  (Jenoviive  Grautier  and  her  son, 
who  is  the  lawful  heir  of  the  title  and 
estate  of  Clermont."    Hero  his  voice 
sank  to  a  whisper,  and  for  a  moment 
fell  into  silence ;  then  he  started  up  to 
a  sitting  position,  and  stretching  out 
his  hand  toward  tho  notary  ho  said  in  a 


loud, 


voice,  "In  the  preseaco 


hd,  jind  whom  slio 
Id  when  ho  ntunio(I 
Jiaonmcnt,  and  knelt 
1^  her  i)ity," 
liild,  do  not  repronch 
ot  know  I  wfts  your 
^ying  man  ntrctched 
bward  her.  Ho  could 
},  and  his  extended 
La  Marqniso  seized 
her  heart  and  then 
|g  it  with  tears  and 

t  understand  it,  my 
me,  I  was  Iwrn  to 
e  me.  O  my  father, 
)iced  in  your  stiffer- 
lousand  tortures  to 
)rgive  me,  and  bless 
tember    my  wrongs 

>r  all.     I  have  not 
I  it  true,  or  is  it  a 
ild  calls  mo  father?" 
not  to  excite  nion- 
tary  with  a  troubled 
nished  his  deposition, 
failing  fast." 
•   on;   I  will  try  to 
senses.     Aim6e,  hold 
8  what  I  would  say. 
Clermont,  I  searched 
found  nothing.     The 
me,  or  the  papers  had 
another  and  removed 
)lace.     Come  nearer, 
srmont,  and  listen  to 
e  words  of  a  dying 
[Use.     I  have  hated 
d  against  you  with 
e  Gautier.   We  have 
>ecauso  you  were  the 
>  crushed  the  sweet- 
T  bloomed;  her  son 
tried  to  avenge  her 
5  made  you  suffer, 
you,  we  have  driven 
ritance,  but  we  have 
the  stain  from  tbo 
Gfautier  and  her  son, 
leir  of  the  title  and 
■•"    Here  his  voice 
and  for  a  moment 
m  he  started  up  to 
and  stretching  out 
notary  ho  said  in  a 
"In  the  presenco 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


149 


of  Oo<l,  and  with  the  fear  of  death  bo- 
furo  me,  I,  Justin  Gautier,  do  declare  Fa- 
bien,  Archbishop  of  llouon,  to  bo  the  son 
of  the  former  Comte  do  Clermout,  and 
of  Genevieve  Marie  Gautier,  his  wife." 
For  a  moment  there  was  silonco  in 
the  room,  only  broken  by  a  heavy  groan 
fi-om  Claude.  Then  the  dying  man 
sank  back  on  his  pillow  with  a  gurgling 
gasp.  "Aim4e,  your  hand.  Uememlwr 
your  father  hated  Claude  de  Clermont 
and  tried  to  take  his  life ;  let  that  mem- 
ory make  a  great  gulf  between  you. 
Think  of  the  causo  his  father  gave  me 
to  htitc  his  son,  and  forgive  me  for  that 
hate.  Love  Fabien,  his  brother;  bo 
grateful  to  him,  because  he  saved  me 
from  despair.  Have  I  not  served  you 
well  and  faithfully  all  these  years  1 
Have  I  not  watohed  over  you  with  tho 
utmost  carol  It  was  I,  your  poor  de- 
spised father,  who  made  you  Marquise 
de  Ventadour.  I  discovered  you  hidden 
in  Paris,  after  your  flight  from  Clermont, 
caniing  a  scanty  subsistence  as  a  lace- 
niaker.  I  became  a  servant  to  tho 
Marquis  de  Ventadour,  that  I  might 
serve  you  through  Madame  la  Mar- 
quise. I  was  sent  to  find  a  lace-maker. 
\  brought  you.  I  had  great  influ- 
ence over  the  feeble  old  man,  and  in- 
terested him  in  you,  so  that  after  his 
wife  died  he  offered  you  marriage.  O 
my  child,  how  many  times  I  longed 
to  discover  myself  to  you,  and  yet  I 
feared  to,  I  feared  your  scorn  and  con- 
tempt ! " 

"Ah,  if  I  had  but  known  you  were 
my  father ! "  sobbed  La  Marquise.  "  I 
recognized  you  at  once  as  Pire  Benoit, 
but  1 1)elieved  you  had  not  discovered 
mo  to  be  Aimfie,  and  therefore  I  con- 
tinued to  treat  you  as  a  stranger,  al- 
though I  felt  that  you  had  some  pecu- 
liar interest  in  me.  I  thought  of  many 
things,  but  I  knew  nothing,  so  I  remained 
silent  0,  how  cruel  I  have  been  to  yoii, 
when  I  might  havo  made  your  life 
peajef\il  and  happy  I "  Then  she  thought 
cf  the  wrong  and  injustice  he  had  done 
Claude,  who  was  innocent  of  his  father's 
crimes,  and  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feol- 
mg  caused  her  to  draw  away  her  hands 
and  cry  out,  "  Why,  why  have  you  made 
it  so  hard  for  me  to  forgive  youl 
Entreat  pardon  from  him  you  have  so 
wronged  before  you  can  hope  for  mine. 


You  are  near  eternity :  pray  to  God  for 
forgiveness  and  mercy/' 

But  the  ear  of  her  father  was  already 
deaf  to  her  cty ;  for  before  tho  wurda 
died  on  her  lips,  he  stretched  out  his 
liands  toward  her,  and  cried  in  a  voice 
piercing  with  the  agony  of  death, 
"  Aim^e,  Aim^e ! "  Then  tho  hands  fell, 
a  film  gathered  over  the  wild  oyes,  and 
the  head  rolled  helplessly  on  the  pillow. 
A  moment  after  tlio  notary  folded  his 
paper,  saying,  "His  deposition  is  fin- 
ished, he  is  dead." 

Claude  stooped  over  La  Marqvuso  to 
lift  her  up.  She  had  thrown  hersolf 
upon  her  father's  Iwdy  with  extended 
arms,  her  white  hair  covering  him  like 
a  shroud,  while  tho  crimson  tide  from 
his  wound  welled  forth  and  stained  the 
cold  hands  that  were  clenched  over  his 
heart. 

"  Take  Madame  away  from  this  dread- 
ful scene,"  said  tho  doctor,  who  had 
been  summoned  when  his  skill  was  no 
longer  needed ;  "  take  her  to  her  room 
where  she  will  be  quiet,  for  her  nerves 
are  terribly  shaken,  and  sleep  is  abso- 
lutely necessary." 

Claude  assisted  her  maid  to  carry  her 
to  her  room ;  there  they  laid  her  half 
unconscious  upon  a  sofa,  and  tried  every 
means  to  soothe  her  agitation.  "Do 
not  leave  me,"  she  said  more  than  once 
to  Claude,  —  "  do  not  leave  mo  until  I 
have  explained  all  to  you,  for  I  cannot 
rest  until  I  have  done  so."  More  than 
an  hour  after,  when  she  was  a  littlo 
composed  and  her  passionate  weeping 
had  died  into  long,  heavy  sobs,  she  held 
out  her  hands  to  him,  and  said,  "0 
Claude,  how  I  must  suffer  for  all  my 
future  life,  what  teiriblo  remorse  I 
must  feel  when  I  remember  my  cruelty 
to  my  unhappy  &ther!  My  heart  is 
torn  with  different  emotions.  I  love  him 
and  pity  him  when  I  think  of  his  sor- 
row, and  his  undying  affection  for  me, 
nnd  I  hate  and  despise  him  when  I 
remember  how  he  has  wronged  you. 
0,  what  a  burden  of  pain  and  regret  I 
must  endure  while  life  lasts !  And  you, 
do  you  not  despise  me  for  all  my  decep- 
tion and  folly  t  When  I  left  Clermont 
I  was  insane  with  passion,  and  I  wished 
to  make  you  suffer.  I  rushed  madly 
down  the  path  on  the  edge  of  the  preci- 
pice and  hid  among  the  rocks  until 


I 


150 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


it  nag  qtiito  dnrk  ;  ilicn  I  hurried  nwny 
to  St.  Oucn  like  a  culprit,  whoro  I  took 
tho  night  tmin  for  Paris.  I  threw  my 
Bcnrf  into  tho  river,  thinking  if  it  was 
found  you  would  behove  nio  drowned 
and  80  accuse  yourself  always  of  having 
caiiHcd  my  death.  For  more  than  a 
year  I  remained  in  Paris  undiscovered, 
during  which  time  I  heard  nothing 
from  Clermont.  I  supposed  you  had 
married  Celeste,  and  was  living  happily 
on  your  estate." 

Claude  sighed,  and  said,  "  If  you  had 
listened  to  mo  that  day  when  I  en- 
treated you  to  holp  me,  all  would  have 
been  different." 

"  Do  not  reproach  me.  I  know  how 
I  have  ruined  your  life.  I  am  bitterly 
conscious  of  my  ingratitude  to  one  who 
heaped  favors  upon  me.  I  have  stung 
the  hand  that  caressed  me.  I  once 
thought  I  loved  you  too  well  to  cause 
you  suffering.  I  know  now  that  I  loved 
myself  too  well  to  make  you  happy. 
But,  Claude,  I  am  enduring  a  terrible 
expiation  for  my  follies.  If  we  sow 
tares  we  shall  reap  the  same ;  and  my 
liarvest  is  abundant.  It  is  only  lately 
that  I  learned  of  your  being  accused  of 
causing  my  death,  and  of  tho  dreadful 
scene  at  Clermont ;  or,  believe  me  when 
I  say  it,  I  should  have  made  any 
sacrifice  to  have  proved  you  innocent. 
Until  now  the  Aim£e  of  Clermont  has 
been  dead  to  the  world  ;  but  she  would 
have  arisen  to  life  to  vindicate  you,  if 
she  had  not  indulged  in  another  hope 
as  weak  as  it  was  delusive.  When  I 
learned  from  the  Archbishop^  who  dis- 
covered me  through  my  unhappy  father, 
that  C61este  was  married  and  you  were 
fitill  free,  I  believed  if  you  could  see 
me  at  the  zenith  of  my  triumph,  hon- 
ored and  courted  by  all,  you  might  come 
to  return  my  fatal  affection,  which  has 
never  changed  nor  diminished  with  time 
and  absence." 

"  0  Aim4e,  how  we  have  tormented 
each  other!  Our  very  love  seems  to 
have  turned  to  evil  for  us,"  said  Claude, 
sadly. 

"  You  cannot  underst&nd  all  the  dis- 
tress and  weariness  of  a  life  of  continual 
deception, — the  excitement  and  devour- 
ing anxiety,  the  fear  and  expectation  of 
discovery.  I  adopted  every  possible 
means  to  change   my  appearance.    I 


sacrificed  my  hair.  Do  yon  not  remem- 
ber my  beautiful  hair,  Claude  1  I  wept 
bitterly  when  I  found  it  bleached  white ; 
but  it  transformed  mo.  I  scarce  recog- 
nized myself.  The  first  time  I  saw  you 
was  a  moment  of  intense  agony  ;  for  I 
feared  you  would  discover  in  La  Alar- 
quise  the  lost  Aim^e.  You  were  visibly 
agitated,  almost  overcome  by  the  stmngo 
imprcsBion  I  made  upon  you,  but  yuu 
were  not  convinced." 

"  It  seemed  as  though  tho  spirit  of 
Aimde  had  risen  before  me ;  for  you 
startled  me  by  your  striking  resem- 
blance to  her,  which  I  then  believed 
to  bo  only  accidental,"  said  Claude  in 
explanation  of  tho  violent  emotion  ho 
had  betrayed  on  that  memorable  night, 
when  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be 
conducted  reluctantly  toward  his  des- 
tiny. 

"  I  soon  discovered  that  your  love  for 
Celeste  had  not  changed,  that  you  still 
adored  her.  And  then  I  knew  my  case 
was  hopeless ;  but  I  tried  to  save  you. 
I  was  smcero  in  my  intention  for  vour 
good ;  without  selfish  interest,  or  iiopo 
of  reward  from  you,  I  used  all  my 
influence  with  those  in  power  on  your 
behalf.  It  is  to  that  you  owe  your 
liberty  until  to-night ;  but  I  can  do  no 
more.  Dear  Claude,  if  you  wish  to 
spare  me  still  more  bitter  anguish,  leave 
Paris  at  once." 

"  I  will,"  he  said,  rising ;  "  before  tho 
day  is  over  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to 
Sarzeau.  But  my  dear  Aim^,  my  dear 
sister,  my  heart  aches  to  leave  you 
alone  in  your  sorrow.  I  suffer  to  thiuk 
I  can  do  nothing  for  you." 

"To  know  you  safe  will  render  me 
happier.  You  forgive  me,  j  ou  do  not 
despise  me,  henceforth  theri>  can  be 
nothing  but  kindness  betveen  us; 
therefore  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of 
After  this  tempest  is  over  we  shall  meet 
in  a  more  placid  haven.  Until  then 
adieu,  dear  Claude.  May  God  protect 
you  and  make  you  to  prosper  in  every 
undertaking." 

"  When  shall  we  meet  again,  Aim^e, 
and  how  1 "  said  Claude,  looking  at  her 
with  tearful  eyes. 

"The  day  is  breaking,"  and  she 
pointed  to  the  window  through  which 
struggled  the  pale  dawn ;  "  let  it  bo  an 
omen  of  hope  and  peace.    Adieu." 


Do  yon  not  rcnicm- 
Kir,  Cluudo  1  I  wupt 
[id  it  bleached  white ; 
mo.  I  Bcarco  rccog- 
J  first  time  I  saw  yon 
Jntenso  agony  ;  for  I 
[discover  in  La  Mar- 
io, Yoti  were  visibly 
(rcome  by  tho  stniiigo 
upon  you,  but  you 

:hough  tho  spirit  of 
before  me;  for  you 
'our  striking  reMeni- 
tiich  I  then  believed 
ital,"  said  Clande  in 
violent  emotion  ho 
lat  memorable  night, 
)wed  himself  to  be 
itly  toward  his  dcs- 

•od  that  your  love  for 

angod,  that  you  still 

then  I  knew  my  case 

I  tried  to  save  you. 

ly  intention  for  vour 

fish  interest,  or  hope 

Fou,   I  used   all  my 

we  in  power  on  yoiur 

I  that  you  owe  your 

^ht ;  but  I  can  do  no 

ude,  if  you   wish  to 

)  bitter  anguish,  leave 

prising;  "before  the 
Jl  be  on  my  way  to 
dear  Aim^,  my  dear 
aches  to  leave  yon 
'w.  I  suffer  to  thitok 
)r  you." 

safe  will  render  me 
jive  me,  j  ou  do  not 
iforth  theio  can  be 
Iness  betvcen  us ; 
thing  to  complnin  of 
is  over  we  shall  meet 
haven.  Until  then 
.     May  God  protect 

to  prosper  in  every 

meet  again,  Aimde, 
»ude,  looking  at  her 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


151 


and  she 
dow  through  which 
lawn ;  "  let  it  bo  an 
eace.    Adieu." 


PART  NINTH." 

TOO   LATR  TO   SAVB   niHSKLr. 

"  What  !  what  I  daylight  1  Daylight 
«oming  into  the  room,  and  Monsieur 
Claude  not  yet  rotumoa  1  Mon  Dieu  ! 
where  can  he  be  1 "  And  Tristan  stum- 
bled up  from  tho  sofa  in  his  master's 
dressing-room,  whero  ho  hod  fallen  asleep 
at  midnight.  "  How  chilly  it  is  when 
one  wakes  suddenly  in  the  morning  and 
finds  himself  out  of  bed ! "  And  he  shiv- 
ered as  he  peeped  through  the  blinds  into 
the  gray,  deserted  streets.  "  It 's  always 
dreary  before  the  sun  rises.  Tho  sun 
makes  all  the  difference  between  day  and 
night ;  still  it  is  calm,  very  calm  and 
silent ;  the  great  city  sleeps  more  heavily 
just  before  it  awakes.  It's  melancholy  to 
think  of  thousands  of  people  lying  like 
dead  bodies,  entirely  unconscious.  How 
strange  if  they  never  should  awake !  if 
the  sun  should  never  rise  I  if  it  should 
never  grow  any  nearer  day,  and  I  should 
be  the  only  one  awake  in  this  great 
world,  doomed  to  remain  awake  always, 
and  to  look  from  this  high  window  out 
on  to  the  gray,  chilly  city,  with  every 
sound  hushed,  and  ererybody  sleeping 
forever !  Ah,  what  a  fancy  I  I  have 
strange  fancies  always  now.  Certainly 
it 's  because  I  'm  ill  and  can't  live  long. 
I  'm  always  thinking  of  dead  men  and 
graves,  and  those  dreadful  catacombs 
where  my  bones  may  be  thrown  some 
day,  if  I  die  in  Paris.  I  wish  Monsieur 
Claude  would  hurry  back  to  Sarzeau. 
He  always  says  he's  going,  and  yet  he 
does  not  go.  It 's  Madame  Celeste  that 's 
keeping  him  here.  What 's  the  use  of 
searching  for  a  thing  when  you  don't 
know  where  to  search  1  She  may  be  in 
Paris,  she  may  be  in  England,  or  eyen 
farther,  for  all  he  knows ;  and  yet  he  re- 
mains here  and  runs  the  risk  of  being 
imprisoned,  and  perhaps  guillotined,  for 
the  sake  of  finding  another  man's  wife. 
I  should  say  it  was  n't  right,  if  it  was 
any  one  else  but  Monsieur  Claude.  I 
know  he  must  have  some  good  reason 
for  what  he  does,  so  I  sha'n't  blame  him ; 
but  I  do  wish  I  could  go  back  to  Sar- 
zeau. I  should  like  to  feel  the  breeze 
from  the  sea,  and  hear  the  birds  in  the 
morning,  and  sit  in  the  sun  under  Ja- 
net's vines  on  the  south  wall.  It 's  so 
much  better  there  than  in  Paris.    It 


may  bo  very  well  to  live  hero  for  thoso 
who  like  noise  and  crowds  and  danger, 
but  to  die  here,  oh  ! "  And  the  poor 
soul  shivered  all  over,  as  his  thoughts 
returned  to  the  dolorous  subject  that 
distressed  him  always.  "  Monsiour 
Claude  says  it  's  foolish  and  wicked 
too  to  care  whero  our  Iwdy  is  buried, 
when  our  soul  is  in  glory ;  but  for  sumo 
reason  I  don't  like  to  think  of  this  p<H)r 
deformed  skeleton  being  tossed  about  in 
the  catacombs  for  people  to  look  at  and 
say,  '  Poor  unfortunate,  ho  was  a  hunch- 
back I '  It 's  drea<lful  to  think  that  one's 
remains  will  show  for  years  after  how 
one  was  afflicted  in  lifo.  Tho  world  looks 
at  it  as  a  sort  of  reproach,  and  blames 
tho  ill-fated  creature  for  God's  doings. 
It 's  all  deplorable  enough,  and  my  life 
might  have  been  worse  than  a  galley- 
slave's,  if  Monsieur  Claude  had  n't  saved 
me  from  misery.  How  beautifully  my 
days  have  passed  with  him  I  It 's  every- 
thing to  bo  always  near  one  you  lovo. 
I  could  n't  live  away  from  him.  0, 
whero  can  he  bel  Morning,  broad  day- 
light, and  his  bed  empty  !  He  may  bo 
in  prison  oven  now,  and  if  ho  is  I  shall 
never  see  him  again.  Hark!  somo 
one  is  at  the  parte  cochire.  I  wish  I 
could  see  the  court  from  hero.  Ah, 
there  he  comes !  I  hear  his  step  on  tho 
stairs."  And  Tristan  sprang  to  tho 
door  and  opened  it  with  a  radiant  face. 

Claude  entered  slowly  and  heavily. 
He  was  very  pale.  His  hair  was  dis- 
hevelled, and  his  eyes  were  red  from  his 
vigil ;  still  there  was  a  deep  meaning  in 
his  face,  a  stem,  cold  resolve,  and  his 
voice  was  harsh  for  the  first  time  to 
Tristan,  as  he  said,  "  What  I  have  you 
been  sitting  up  all  night  1  Have  you 
no  more  sense  than  to  ruin  yourself  in 
this  wayl  Don't  you  know  that  tho 
cold  ana  &tigue  will  kill  you  1  I  have 
told  you  repeatedly  not  to  wait  for  mo 
when  I  was  out" 

"0  monsieur,  I  did  not  intend  to; 
I  went  to  sleep  on  the  sofa,  and  when 
I  woke  it  was  daylight,"  replied  the 
hunchback,  deprecatingly,  while  he 
busied  himself  with  kindling  a  fire,  for 
tho  tnoming  was  damp  and  chilly. 

Claude  threw  himself  into  a  chair, 
and  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  va- 
cancy, mentally  contemplating  the  scene 
through  which  he  had  passed  since  he 


J 


••^b 


1S3 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


left  hlH  room  not  many  hours  liufurc. 
Ho  Hciirco  tlioii^ht  of  tho  nttnuk  uiM>n 
lim  ]ierBon,  ulthuugh  ho  witH  Dure  and 
nchiii)^  from  bin  Htnigglo  for  his  Ufe. 
Ho  (lid  not  foul  any  HcuBihility,  any 
gratitude  to  (jod  for  saving  liini  fVom 
the  tcrrihlu  danger  ho  had  encountorud  ; 
iieithcr  did  ho  tiiink  of  the  sudden  and 
dreadful  donth  of  his  enemy,  tho  swift 
i>"'l  sure  retribution  that  bad  fidlowod 
h  sin  ;  for  his  soul  was  full  of  the 
revelations  that  had  been  made  by  the 
(lying  man.  Many  things  that  had 
^ioemed  mysterious  had  lH>on  explained  ; 
he  had  discovored  Aini^e  in  1a  ><<irquisc, 
and  that  discovery  would  romovo  tho 
Ktigina  that  had  rested  upon  his  name 
for  nearly  ton  years.  Surely  this  was  a 
cause  for  thankfulness  and  satisfaction, 
yet  it  did  not  arouso  ony  emotion  of 
that  nature ;  ho  was  aching  and  smart- 
ing under  a  pain  that  he  was  not  pre- 
pared to  endure.  In  fact,  ho  was  ex- 
periencing a  trial  almost  bc}-ond  the 
strength  of  humanity  to  Ihjot. 

Wo  can  make  groat  sacrifices,  wo  can 
support  great  torments  with  becoming 
heroism,  we  can  even  find  strength  to 
endure  tho  pains  of  death,  for  one  we 
love.  Being  human,  I  say,  we  can  do 
these  for  one  we  love;  but  as  mortals 
can  wo  do  these  things  for  one  wo  have 
hated,  for  one  who  has  wronged  us 
bitterly,  for  one  who  has  branded  us 
with  sufToriug  1  Can  we  forget  our  an- 
guish and  our  tears,  and  with  placid, 
Biniling  lips  bless  the  one  who  has 
cursed  us)  Ah  !  this  is  the  crucible  in 
which  to  test  us,  to  discover  if  there  is 
any  divinity  moulded  into  our  clay. 

Wo  know  how  Claude  some  time  be- 
fore had  tried,  his  heart  filled  with  good 
intentions,  to  find  this  brother  that  the 
sin  of  his  father  had  defrauded  of  his 
inheritance,  and  how  be  had  never  hesi- 
tated whon  he  saw  his  duty  clearly  be- 
fore him,  but  had  hastened  with  almost 
eagerness  to  fulfil  it ;  and  now  he  did 
not  suffer  to  know  that  his  brother  lived, 
and  that  he  must  resign  his  birthright, 
his  title,  his  worldly  goods,  to  him. 
There  was  no  avarice  in  his  feelings. 
He  did  not  fear  poverty,  he  did  not 
unduly  esteem  pedigree,  and  to  take 
the  position  of  a  second  son  was 
no  annoyance  to  him.  His  suffering 
was    not  because  be   had  found  this 


brother,  but  l)Oca<iso  ho  was  a  man  ho 
duspisud,  his  bitterest  enemy,  his  most 
moruileHM  puisucutor,  the  one  who  had 
parted  him  from  Ctileste,  who  had  ruined 
his  life,  who  hud  sacrificed  his  honor  and 
his  ImppinuHs,  who  had  l)ccu  false  to  his 
trust,  who  hud  betrayed,  deceived,  de- 
nounced and  almndoncd  him  iii  his  hour 
of  need,  and  knowing,  with  all  that,  that 
the  same  blood  run  in  thuir  veins,  that 
thoy  wore  brothers.  Was  ho  not  un 
unnatural  monster,  a  cruel  miscreant, 
who  could  so  disregard  the  ties  of  re- 
lati(inBhi|),  and  immolate  his  father's  son 
for  his  ambition,  pride,  and  revenge  1 
What  should  he  dol  How  could  he, 
when  there  was  no  compulsion,  heap 
benefits  upon  tho  one  who  had  so 
wronged  him  1  How  could  he,  by  sacri- 
ficing himself,  put  the  top  stone  to  tho 
lofty  structure  of  this  man's  honors  1 
Hod  he  not  already  enough  t  Ho  had 
robbed  him  while  he  held  his  inheri- 
tance in  tnist ;  must  he  then  impoverish 
himself  to  givo  this  faithless  guardian 
the  remainder  1  And  with  all  these  tor- 
turing thoughts,  a,  to  him,  still  more 
powerirul  reason  tlian  thcso  why  he 
should  not  resign  all  obtruded  itself, 
for  by  doing  so  he  must  lose  the  chance 
of  assisting  Celeste  in  her  poverty. 
What  would  become  of  her,  if  left  to  tho 
cold  charity  of  tho  world  1  How  could 
she  live,  when  nothing  more  remained  1 
Had  he  not  tho  right  to  take  justice 
into  his  own  hands,  and  return  to  this 
defrauded  woman  the  wealth  her  guar- 
dian had  stolen  from  her  1  Was  he  not 
responsible  for  her  welfare ;  and  if  he 
had  been  the  cause  of  her  misfoiiunes, 
should  he  not  make  some  reparation! 
Then  was  it  not  absolutely  his  duty,  un* 
der  the  circumstances,  to  keep  the  secret 
of  these  papers  locked  within  his  own 
heart  t  Or  was  it  not  better  to  destroy 
them  altogether,  and  so  end  tho  trial, 
and  secure  his  future  welfare,  not  for 
himself  entirely,  but  for  those  dependent 
on  him  1  No  living  soul  but  himself 
knew  of  their  existence ;  they  were  in 
his  hands.  A  moment  and  the  bright 
flame  Tristan  had  kindled  would  destroy 
every  trace  of  them  forever,  and  leave 
him  free  to  carry  out  his  plans  for  tho 
g(M)d  of  Cd'leste.  The  revelation  that 
Justin  Gautier  had  made  on  his  death- 
bed, though  true  beyond  a  doiiLt,  v.as 


A  CROWN  FROM  TUE  SPEAR. 


tst 


10  lio  wfts  A  man  ho 
mt  enotuy,  Lih  djobi 
r,  tho  Olio  who  hnd 
|e8to,  wlio  had  niinod 
rificod  hitt  honor  and 
liftd  Ihjcu  falHo  to  hia 
|riiyod,  doceivt'd,  do- 
iicd  liim  iii  his  hour 
ig,  with  all  that,  that 
in  thuir  veins,  that 
Was  ho   not   an 
a  criiol  nii«crcant, 
gard  tho  tios  of  ro- 
olato  hlH  fiithor'H  son 
Ipride,  and  rovcngol 
'o?     How  could  ho, 
compulsion,  heap 
ouo   who    Imd  so 
could  ho,  hy  sacri- 
tho  top  stone  to  the 
this  man's  honors  1 
Y  enough?    Ho  had 
he  held  his  inhcri- 
it  ho  then  impoverish 
is  faithless  guardian 
id  with  all  these  tor- 
,  to  him,  still  more 
han    these   why    he 
all    obtruded  itself, 
must  lose  the  chance 
ite   in    her  poverty, 
e  of  her,  if  left  to  tho 
world  1    How  could 
ling  more  remained  1 
'iglit  to  take  justice 
1,  and  return  to  this 
the  wealth  her  guar- 
n  her  1    Was  ho  not 
welfare ;  and  if  he 
of  her  misfortunes, 
ce  some  reparation? 
olutely  his  duty,  un- 
88,  to  keep  the  secret 
ked  within  his  own 
lot  better  to  destroy 
id  80  end  tho  trial, 
ire  welfare,  not  for 
for  those  dependent 
g  80ul  but  himself 
ence;  they  were  in 
ent  and  the  bright 
ndlcd  would  destroy 
I  forever,  and  leave 
t  his  plans  for  tho 
rhe  revelation  that 
made  on  his  death- 
youd  a  doiiLt,  v.aa 


of  no  use  in  oatablishlng  Fabien's  olaimi, 
witltout  tho  pupom  ho  po8ii<>Haed.  If  ho 
destroyed  them,  notliingcouhl  livchangod 
in  his  situation,  he  would  still  enjoy  all. 
And  now  ho  knew  Vim^e  lived,  and  his 
iunoconce  of  tho  crime  that  had  driven 
him  from  Clormont  could  be  established, 
and  nothing  ooiild  prevent  him  iVom 
returning  there  to  triumph  over  his 
euomy.  And  then  when  Mouthelon 
was  in  his  possoBsion,  and  ho  intended 
it  should  bo  an  soon  as  tho  arrange- 
monts  wore  concluded,  and  La  Marquise 
had  discovered  Celeste,  she  should  l)o- 
conie  its  owner  again,  and  reside  there 
as  in  tho  old  days.  Such  a  possi- 
bility fillod  his  Boul  with  joy,  and  he, 
not  knowing  through  what  seas  of  fire 
he  must  pass  before  such  a  consummation 
could  arrive,  exulted  to  himself,  and 
prematurely  congratulated  himsolf  that 
he  had  not,  from  a  far-fetched  sense  of 
duty,  decided  to  resign  those  papers, 
and  thereby  lose  the  chance  of  such  a 
blissful  future. 

Methinks  I  hear  my  readers  Bay,  with 
somo  disappointment,  "Alas,  how  has 
this  fine  gold  become  dim  I"  Have  pa- 
tience a  little  longer,  kind  hearts.  Uo- 
membcr  he  was  but  human,  and  the 
temptation  was  terrible.  And  remem- 
ber also  how  this  man  had  wronged 
him,  and  how  diifioulc  it  is  for  mortals 
to  be  godlike. 

Tristan  sat  near  the  fire  he  had  kin- 
dled, watching  his  inaster'a  face  closely. 
He  knew  there  was  some  powerful  com- 
bat raging  within ;  and  when  Claude 
sprang  up  suddenly,  and,  going  to  his 
desk,  opened  it  with  an  eager  hand,  the 
servant  thought,  "  Now  he  has  con- 
quered," when  in  fact  he  was  on  the 
verge  of  a  lamentable  defeat.  It  is 
well  for  us  that  God  does  not  judge  us 
by  the  outward  appearance,  else  we 
should  come  to  confusion  when  we 
looked  within.  He  turned  over  the 
papers  with  an  impetuous  hand,  and 
drew  from  the  bottom  of  the  desk  a  yel- 
low package  tied  with  a  ribbon.  He  re- 
garded it  for  a  moment,  while  a  dread- 
ful pallor  settled  over  his  features  ; 
then,  with  a  groan  of  anguish,  he 
flung  it  on  the  table,  and  falling  into 
a  chair  he  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  For  more  than  a  half-hour  he 
sat  there  without  a  sound;  then  he 


looked  up  and  said  In  an  unsteady  voice, 
"  Tristan." 

"  Monsieur  1" 

"  Tristan,  I  am  In  torment." 

"  In  torment,  monsieur  1" 

"  Yes,  I  am  sutferiug  almost  the  pains 
of  hell." 

"  U,  how  dreadful !  Dut  have  you 
done  anything  wrong  1 " 

"  r  have,  Tristan.  It  is  liocauso  I 
have,  and  because  I  still  wish  to,  that  I 
suffer." 

"  Have  you  found  Madamo  Celeste, 
monsieur  1  For  in  Tristan's  estimation, 
Claude's  interest  in  another  man's  wife 
was  the  only  fault  he  had  over  commit- 
ted ;  and  he  could  think  of  nothing 
else  but  the  remorse  for  that,  which 
could  entail  such  a  fearful  punishment. 

"  No,  no,  I  have  not  found  her.  It 
is  something  now,  something  moro  try- 
ing than  any  trouble  I  have  over  known. 
I  have  a  great  many  strange  things  to 
toll  you,  Tristan.  Mademoiselle  Aim^o 
is  still  living,  and  I  have  seen  her." 

"Soon  herl  0,  thank  Ood !  And  you 
are  not  gladl"  cried  Tristan  in  one 
breath,  for  Claude's  rather  ambiguous 
words  confused  him. 

"Certainly  I  am  thankful  to  know 
she  lives.  Who  has  suffered  from  her 
disappearance  more  than  I  have,  and 
who  has  greater  cause  for  joy  at  her  dis- 
covery 1 " 

"  0  monsieur,  tell  me,  please,  where 
she  is,  and  when  I  may  see  her  I  It 
will  be  like  heaven  to  see  her  again." 
And  tears  of  delight .  rolled  over  the 
hunchback's  wan  face. 

Then  Claude  told  him  briefly  of  tho 
scene  through  which  he  had  passed; 
of  the  attack  by  P^re  Benoit  and  his 
accomplices ;  of  the  dying  man's  deposi- 
■tion  as  Justin  Gautier,  the  discovery 
that  the  Archbishop  was  his  brother, 
and  that  La  Marquise  was  Aim6e ;  and 
of  the  existence  of  the  necessary  proofs 
which  would  take  away  his  title  and  es- 
tate, to  confer  them  upon  his  enemy :  all 
of  which  Tristan  listened  to  with  tears 
dnenciiing  his  face,  while  he  wrung  his 
hands  moaning;  "  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! "  with 
every  variation  of  sorrow. 

" Now,  mon  ami"  said  Claude,  looking 
st«adily  at  his  servant,  "  what  would  you 
think  of  the  man  who  possessed  those 
proofs,  if  he  should  throw  them  into  the 


1 


154 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


II 


flamos  and  watoh  thorn  until  thoy  woru 
oonHiimed  1 " 

"()  mondiour,  I  can't  toll  youl"  re- 
plied TriHtan,  heiitating. 

"  Tell  niu  the  truth  ;  what  would  yott 
think  uf  him  r* 

"  I  Hhould  think  ho  waa  atlll  mora 
wicked  than  Monseigneur  tho  Arch- 
biHliup,"  Huid  the  hunchback,  with  a  huI- 
onin  omphnaiH  on  each  word. 

Claude  winced  as  he  turned  toward 
the  tHblo  and  took  up  tho  package  of 

fapors,  Haying,  "  I  am  that  man,  TriHtan. 
have  tho  proofs,  and  no  ono  else.  Thev 
are  the  papers  I  found  in  the  old  cabi- 
net at  Sarzoau,  and  I  have  decided  to 
.destroy  thorn." 

"  O  monsieur  I "  And  tho  servant  drew 
away  iVom  his  master  with  a  look  of 
horror. 

"  Yos,  it  is  my  duty.  Think  of  it,  if  I 
give  thcyu  to  that  man  it  will  ruin  mo. 
I  can  do  nothing  for  myself,  nothing  for 
those  I  love.  I  shall  be  poor,  very  poor  ; 
fur  my  father  made  no  provision  for  a 
younger  son,  and  I  will  not  accept  tho 
charity  of  tho  man  I  hate,"  cried  Claude, 
lashing  himself  into  a  fury  to  find  an 
excuse  for  the  deed  bo  intended  to  com- 
mit. 

"  But,  monsieur,  it  is  nothing  to  be 
poor,  if  one  has  done  no  wrong.  Give 
Monseigneur  the  papers,  and  leave  God 
to  punish  him,  and  we  will  work  to- 
gether with  a  clear  conscience  and  a 
light  heart,  because  wo  sliidl  have  no 
great  weight  of  sin  to  press  us  down 
and  make   us  weary.     I  can   work  for 

Jrou  while  I  live,  which  may  perhaps  be 
ongor  than  it  would  bo  if  I  knew  you 
had  committed  such  a  sin." 

"  0  Tristan,  it  is  not  for  myself  alono 
that  I  suffer,"  cried  Claude,  leaning  his 
head  upon  the  chimney-piece,  with  the 
papers  still  in  his  hand.  The  flames 
curled  up  crisply  with  a  significant  hiss, 
the  coals  gleamed  like  the  hungry  mouth 
of  a  wild  beast  How  soon,  how  very 
soon,  all  would  disappear,  if  he  should 
open  his  fingers  and  let  the  little  bundle 
of  papers  drop  into  tho  devouring  fire, 
and  a  breath  would  disperse  tho  white 
ashes,  all  that  would  remain  of  the  proof 
of  his  father's  sin  and  his  enemy's  good 
fortune.  The  great  drops  of  sweat 
started  out  on  his  forehead,  strong  fin- 
gers seemed  to  be  clutching  bis  throat, 


an  iron  bond  pressed  upon  his  brain, 
and  a  leaden  weight  stopped  the  puUtt- 
tion  uf  his  heart.  It  was  a  muuient  to 
trv  both  soul  and  body,  a  moment  un 
which  depended  all  his  future.  It  was 
tho  crisis,  the  turning-point,  ni  his  moral 
as  well  as  his  physical  oxiHtunce.  Tris- 
tan stood  before  liim  with  his  great  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face  in  mute  entreaty. 

"  Think,  monsieur,  tliink  tliut  God 
sees  you,"  he  gasped  ;  "  think  of  your 
conf\ision  and  fear  when  you  meet  poor 
Genevieve  Gautier  in  eternity.  Forget 
the  Archdeacon's  wrongs,  and  rememltor 
how  she  suflered.  Do  not  deHtroy  the 
papers,  send  them  away  at  once,  and 
you  will  thank  God  afterward." 

"  I  cannot,  Tristan,  I  cannot.  0,  I 
l)elioved  I  had  drunk  all  the  bitterness 
of  life  before,  but  this  is  the  drop  that 
kills  me  I  I  have  been  burnt  in  tho  fire, 
I  have  boon  trodden  in  tho  wine-press, 
but  this  is  the  crowning  trial,  the 
wrenching  pain  that  wrings  my  soid  be- 
yond endurance.  0  Tristan,  Tristan,  I 
cannot,  I  will  not  ruin  myself,  and  every 
chance  of  my  future  happiness,  for  this 
man  who  has  so  wronged  me  ! " 

"Christ  died  for  those  who  pierced 
him.  His  crown  was  given  to  him  upon 
the  point  of  a  spear." 

"  But  I  am  not  Christ-like,  I  am  hu- 
man, pitifully  human ;  for  what  good- 
ness and  strength  I  have  gained  fVom 
my  discipline  are  all  swept  away.  I  am 
weak  and  powerless  in  the  hands  of 
Satan,  who  will  conquer  me.  0,  I  am 
mod,  I  am  suffering  beyond  description ! 
If  I  give  these  up,  my  life  is  ruined ;  if  I 
keep  them,  like  Judas,  I  shall  dash  my- 
self to  pieces  upon  a  stone.  Take  them, 
Tristan,  for  God's  sake  take  them ;  take 
them  out  of  my  sight,  whero  they  will 
tempt  me  no  more."  And  throwing  tho 
package  to  his  servant,  Claude  fell  on 
his  knees  and  burst  into  tears.  For  a 
few  moments  he  prayed  silently,  weep- 
ing while  he  prayed,  and  then  he  arose 
saying,  "  It  is  over,  Tristan,  it  is  over, 
have  no  more  fears.  It  is  my  lost  con- 
flict ;  there  can  be  nothing  worse  in  store 
for  me  than  what  I  have  suffered  this 
night.  My  dear  old  friend,  I  have  had 
many  terrible  combats,  and  God  has 
never  deserted  me,  neither  havo  you. 
In  eternity,  when  my  scars  are  counted, 
those  that  you  have  healed  will  plead 


▲  CROWN  FROM  THE  8PEAB. 


m 


*nuod   upon  his  Itrain, 
light  •U>|>p«h1  tho  imUtt- 
'      It  Wiw  a  iiioinciit  to 
bwly,  u  iHoiutnt  oii 
ftll  hJH  future.     It  wan 
ImiriK-poiiit,  m  his  inoml 
nvmoal  oxintcnco.     'Iris- 
Jiim  with  hiH  j^rcRt  t^os 
ice  in  iHuto  cnticiitv. 
'•>«ur,   ti.ink  thut  (Jod 
wpcd  ;    "  think  of  jour 
|ar  when  you  nict-t  poor 
er  in  eternity.     Forjret 
^  wrongB,  nnd  rtinomlwr 
Do  not  (IcHtroy  tho 
cm  away  at  oucc,  and 
jJod  afterward." 
'ristan,  I  eannot.     0,  I 
Jrunk  all  tho  bittcnioM 
t  this  ia  tho  drop  that 
e  been  burnt  in  tho  fire, 
dden  in  tho  wine-prose, 

0  crowning  trial,  the 
that  wrings  mv  soul  bo- 
.  0  Tristan,  Tristan,  I 
t  ruin  myself,  and  every 
ture  happiness,  for  this 
wronged  mo ! " 

for  those  who  pierced 
1  was  given  to  him  upon 
)ear." 

ot  Christ-like,  I  am  hu- 
mman ;  for  what  good- 
th  I  have  gained  from 
9  all  swept  away.    I  am 
rless  in   the  hands  of 
conquer  me.     0,  I  am 
iug  beyond  description ! 
p,  my  life  is  ruined ;  if  I 
ludas,  I  shall  dash  my- 
n  a  stone.     Take  them, 
I  sake  take  them  j  take 
sight,  where  they  will 
»."    And  throwing  tho 
arvant,  Claude  fell  on 
rst  into  tears.     For  a 
prayed  silently,  weep- 
ed,  and  then  he  arose 
w,  Tristan,  it  is  over, 
rs.    It  is  my  last  con- 
uothing  worse  in  store 

1  have  suifered  this 
Id  friend,  I  have  had 
Dobats,  and  God  has 
e,  neither  have  you. 
nay  scars  are  counted, 
ive  healed  will  plead 


for  you.  Do  not  look  at  me  with  pitv 
in  yuiir  tondor  eyes ;  look  at  nio  with 
joy,  door  Tristan,  for  I  am  newly 
cruwniMl ;  tho  thorns  are  removed,  and  u 
oruwu  of  fresh  cool  bay  unuirolos  mv  un- 
worthy brow.  You  cannot  sue  it,  but  I 
can  feul  it.  0,  how  great  is  tho  reward 
of  a  ri(<htoouB  determination  I  I  cannot 
uuduntttind  why  I  hesitated  ;  now  my 
duty  Mcointi  oosy,  my  socritico  no  sacrifice 
at  all,  but  rather  a  blessing.  When  God 
removes  oiiu  liopu  ho  gives  us  another ; 
alrundy  my  future  brightens  before  mo." 

"  TliiinkH  1)0  to  him,"  ho  thought, 
" whin  I  Hco  hor,  whether  hero  or  in  eter- 
nity, I  can  luok  into  hor  face  without 
•huniu." 

Then  ho  took  tho  package  of  papers 
from  tlio  table  whcro  Tristan  had  laid 
them,  und  folding  them  carefully  in  a 
heavy  cnvel(>|)o,  ho  wrote  with  a  steady 
hand  the  adilross  of  the  Archbishop  of 
IlouoM,  after  wliich  ho  looked  at  it  for 
some  time.  His  eyes  red  and  heavy 
with  weeping,  his  pale  fifte  stained  with 
tears,  bore  traces  of  tho  tempest  through 
which  he  hnd  passed ;  now  its  force  was 
spent,  and  there  was  a  settled  calm,  a 
peaceful,  earnest  intention  in  its  expres- 
sion, that  showed  how  important  a  vic- 
tory ho  had  won.  "  Tristan,"  he  said, 
as  he  put  a  number  of  stamps  upon  tho 
envelope,  "  givo  this  to  the  porter,  and 
tell  him  to  tako  it  to  the  post  at  once. 
I  do  not  wibh  to  keep  Monseigneur  out 
of  his  inheritance  one  hour." 

"  But,  monsieur,  do  you  not  intend  to 
write  some  explanation,  at  least  to  let 
htm  know  that  i/ou  have  sent  him  tho 

Eapors  ] "  inquired  the  hunchback,  who 
ad  felt  some  satisfaction  in  imagining 
the  Archbishop's  discomfiture  when  ho 
knew  that  Claude  had  so  nobly  resigned 
all  to  him. 

"  No,  tnon  ami,  I  do  not.  I  might  go 
to  him  myself  and,  with  a  groat  show 
of  renunciation,  place  these  proofs  in 
his  hands.  It  would  make  a  very  af- 
fecting scene,  and  would  heap  coals  of 
fire  upon  his  head;  but  I  have  not 
merited  such  a  gratification.  If  God 
had  not  given  me  strength,  I  should 
have  been  no  better  than  he  is ;  there- 
fore I  have  no  right  to  exult  over  my 
victory,  I  should  be  only  quietly  thank- 
ful that  I  obtained  it  through  tho  aid  of 
another." 


Tristan  t(H)k  tho  package  without  any 
fiirtlier  runiurk,  and  loft  tho  room. 

An  hour  aftor,  thuso  long-missing 
proofs,  that  Fubion  had  seurchuil  fwr, 
that    Justin  Guutier  had  planned  and 

t)lotteil  to  ){ct  |M)Mses«ion  of,  and  which 
lud  caused  so  niuuh  sutl'eritig  to  so 
many,  were  travelling  jicaceably  toward 
their  destination.  Monseigneur  tho 
Arehliishop,  at  thut  moment  reverently 
porfonning  high  m.iss  in  Nutru  Dame, 
littlo  thouglit  how  near  he  was  to 
the  consumniatiun  of  his  long-cherished 
ho{K}s.  And  Aimee,  as  she  wept  ia  ro- 
morsefid  sorrow  over  tho  silent  body 
of  hor  father,  bad  no  impression  of  tho 
struggle,  the  sulferin^,  tho  pain,  hia^ 
rovelution  hud  caused  to  him  she  lovou 
better  than  life.  While  in  another  part 
of  tho  city  A  littlo  sceuo  was  lioiug 
ennjted,  thut  bore  some  moral  rosom- 
bianco  to  tho  tragedy  of  eighteen  hun- 
dred years  ago,  when  the  Jews  camo 
out  with  swords  and  staves  to  take  one 
who  had  tried  to  save  them. 

Tristan,  after  ho  hod  doliverod  tho 
pockago  to  tho  porter,  retumod  to  servo 
his  master's  breakfast  with  a  feeling  of 
relief  that  tho  troublesome  thing  was 
fairly  off,  and  thut  there  was  now  no 
chance  to  yield  to  temptation,  even  if 
one  was  tempted. 

While  Claude  drank  his  ooffeo  and 
ate  his  rolls  with  a  better  appotito 
than  he  would  have  hnd  nn  hour  or 
two  before,  he  said  to  Tristuu,  "  I 
have  business  to  arrange  which  will 
detain  me  for  some  time.  Wliilu  I  mn 
away  everything  must  bo  packed  and 
prepared,  for  wo  must  leave  Paris  for 
Sarzoau  in  the  three-o'clock  train.  I 
shall  go  there  and  await  some  communi- 
cation from  Monseigneur.  I  hope  he 
will  not  try  to  deprive  me  of  that  littlo 
retreat.  It  is  very  dear  to  me,  and  if  I 
may  keep  it  I  shall  bo  oontoiit.  Wo 
can  be  happy  there,  Tristan,  can  wo 
notl"  Then  he  sighed  and  thought 
of  Celeste ;  his  only  hope  for  her  now 
was  in  La  Marquiso. 

"  Happy  1  0  yes,  monsieur  !  ono  is 
rich  cnouf^h  at  Sarzoau  with  very  little. 
I  will  help  Janot,  and  we  will  raiso 
enough  off  the  grounds  to  live  on," 
replied  Tristan,  eagerly,  forgetting  in 
tho  desire  to  do  something  for  his  be- 
loved master  how  very  near  he  waa 


166 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR.  ' 


to  laying  down  his  own  burden  for- 
ever. 

"  In  any  case  we  will  stand  by  each 
other,  my  dear  boy ;  while  I  live  you 
shall  never  suffer  want,"  said  Claude, 
kindly,  as  he  took  his  hat  and  gloves  to 
go  out. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  a 
servant  entered  with  rather  an  alarmed 
mannei',  saying,  "  Two  men  are  in  the 
antecliamber  who  wish  to  see  M.  le 
Conite  directly." 

Claude  walked  peaceably  toward  them, 
drawing  on  his  gloves  as  he  went,  never 
dreaming  to  what  fate  he  was  going. 
But  when  he  saw  the  men,  a  sudden 
^impression  made  him  change  color  and 
falter.  They  stood  near  the  door  with 
folded  arms  and  portentously  grave 
faces.  One  was  tall  and  thin,  with  a 
solemn  aspect ;  the  other  was  short 
and  stout,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  small 
gray  eyes  which  told  plainly  that  his 
gravity  was  assumed  for  the  occasion  : 
and  both  wore  a  sort  of  military  un- 
dress. 

The  taller  of  the  two  advanced  to- 
ward Claude  as  he  entered,  and  touch- 
ing his  cap  with  an  air  half  respectful, 
half  supercilious,  he  said,  "  M.  le  Comte 
do  Clermont  1 " 

"  I  am  he,"  replied  Claude,  calmly. 

The  tall  man  turned  to  the  short 
man,  who  took  a  paper  out  of  the  crown 
of  his  greasy  cap,  saying  in  an  under- 
tone, as  he  gave  it  to  his  companion, 
"  No  trouble  here  ;  a  peaceable  party ; 
gendarmes  not  needed." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  officer,  in  a 
deliberate  voice,  slowly  unfolding  the 
paper,  which  bore  the  enormous  seal  of 
the  state,  —  "  monsieur,  I  have  here  a 
warrant  from  the  government  for  your 
arrest." 

**  Indeed  !  "  said  Claude,  still  with 
remarkable  calmness.  "On  what  ac- 
cusation 1 " 

The  tall  man  passed  the  warrant  to 
the  short  man,  who,  holding  a  single 
eye-glass  very  near  his  nose,  glanced 
over  it,  saying,  "  Political  offences  of 
a  grave  nature.  Conspiracy  against 
the  administration.  Incendiary  articles 
written  with  revolutionary  intentions, 
etc.,  etc.  I  hope  monsieur  will  go  with 
us  peaceably." 

"Certainly.     Allow  me  a  few  mo- 


ments to  give  some  orders  to  my  seiv 
vant." 

"In  our  presence  only,  monsieur," 
said  the  tall  man,  stiffly. 

At  that  moment  Tristan  rushed  into 
the  room  with  a  face  of  ghastly  pallor, 
and,  throwing  his  arms  around  Claude, 
cried,  "  Take  me  with  you,  monsieur." 

The  sudden  appearance  of  the  poor 
hunchback  startled  the  men,  and  they 
drew  back  in  evident  dislike  and  annoy- 
ance at  such  a  singular  interruption. 

"You  cannot  go  with  me,  my  poor 
boy,"  said  Claude,  gently  caressing  his 
hair ;  "  the  time  has  come  when  we 
must  part,  and  God  only  knows  for  bow 
long  it  may  be." 

"It  wiU  be  forever,  monsieur,  it 
will  be  forever.  When  you  leave  me  I 
shall  die,  as  people  die  from  hunger 
and  thirst." 

"  Hush,  mon  ami,  you  wring  my 
heart.  Have  patience,  it  may  not  be 
for  long.  I  shall  be  tried,  and,  I  hope, 
liberated.  I  %m  not  guilty  of  any 
crime,  then  why  should  I  be  impris- 
oned 1  Go  back  to  Sarzeau,  and  wait 
for  me ;  do  not  fret,  for  that  will  ruin 
your  health.  Try  and  live  for  me, 
Tristan." 

But  the  poor  creative  only  clung  to 
him,  sobbing  in  the  wildest  grief,  "It 
will  bo  forever,  it  will  be  forever." 

"Will  monsieur  do  us  the  favor  to 
accompany  us  as  soon  as  possible  t "  said 
the  tall  man,  in  a  voice  of  cold  author- 
ity, while  the  short  man  added,  looking 
encouragingly  at  Tristan,  "  The  sooner 
monsieur  goes,  the  sooner  he  '11  get  back. 
Don't  be  down-hearted,  my  man ;  you 
can't  tell  anything  about  these  arrests. 
People  are  suspected  one  day,  and  tried 
and  liberated  the  next.  If  you  don't 
fret,  I  dare  say  you  '11  see  your  master 
back  to-morrow,"  he  said,  winking  with 
one  eye  to  the  tall  man,  who  responded 
by  drawing  his  mouth  a  little  on  one 
side. 

Neither  poor  Tristan  nor  Claude 
noticed  this  by-play,  nor  the  man's  in- 
sincere attempt  to  console  them,  for 
both  were  so  wrapped  up  in  their  own 
misery  as  to  be  insensible  to  outward 
influences.  Again  the  tall  man  spoke, 
and  this  time  more  imperiously.  And 
Claude  knew  the  moment  had  come 
when  he  must  tear  himself  from  the 


\\ 


bme  ordera  to  my  set- 

lence  odIj,  monsieur," 
n,  stiffly. 

It  Tristan  rushed  into 
I  face  of  ghastly  pallor, 
B  arms  around  Claude, 
I  with  you,  monsieur." 
ppoarance  of  the  poor 
fed  the  men,  and  they 
^ent  dislike  and  annoy- 
igular  interruption. 
Igo  with  me,  my  poor 
|e,  gently  caressing  his 
p  has  come  when  we 
Jod  only  knows  for  how 

forever,  monsieur,  it 
When  you  leave  me  I 
)ple  die  from  hunger 

ami,  you  wring  my 
;ience,  it  may  not  be 

be  tried,  and,  I  hope, 
not    guilty  of   any 

should  I  be  impris- 

to  Sarzeau,  and  wait 
fret,  for  that  will  ruin 
'ry  and  live    for  me, 

creature  only  clung  to 
the  wildest  grief,  "It 
t  will  be  forever." 
lU"  do  us  the  favor  to 
3oon  as  possible  ? "  said 
I  voice  of  cold  author- 
rt  man  added,  looking 
Tristan,  "  The  sooner 
3  sooner  he  '11  get  back. 
Barted,  my  man;  you 
?  about  these  arrests, 
ted  one  day,  and  tried 
'  next.     If  you  don't 
)u  '11  see  your  master 
he  said,  winking  with 
I  man,  who  responded 
louth  a  little  on  one 

Tristan  nor  Claude 
»y,  nor  the  man's  in- 
o  console  them,  for 
ped  up  in  their  own 
isensible  to  outward 

the  tall  man  spoke, 
•e  imperiously.     And 

moment  had  come 
ir  himself  from  the 


~i^r«»  **« 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


157 


ll 


r 


clinging, arms  of  his  faithful  friend  and 
servant.  Raising  tho  wan,  tear-wot 
face  to  his,  he  said,  "  My  dear  boy,  it 
may  not  be  for  long ;  but  if  it  should 
be  forever  on  earth,  there  is  a  sweet 
rest  for  us  in  eternity,  which  we  shall 
have  won  with  much  tribulation.  Think 
of  it,  and  desire  it  as  I  shall,  and  when 
it  comes  it  will  be  most  welcome. 
Rest  assured  we  shall  meet  again,  dear 
soul,  without  the  fear  of  parting.  Go 
to  La  Marquise  and  tell  her  all ;  she 
will  provide  for  you,  for  my  sake. 
Farewell.  Trust  in  God,  and  pray  for 
me."  And  bending  over  him  ho  im- 
printed a  long  kiss  on  the  pale  fore- 
head, and  then  with  a  supreme  effort 
tore  himself  away,  and  followed  the 
men. 

Tristan  stood  looking  after  him  until 
the  door  closed,  then,  with  a  heavy 
groan,  fell  senseless  upon  th^  floor,  and 
lay  like  one  dead. 


jri      !        PART  TENTH. 

*■    ■       '  LA  ROQUETTE. 

"  The  birds  float  by  on  free  wings ; 
the  drifts  of  white  clouds  sweep  over  the 
immense  space  of  heaven;  the  wind 
drives  them  here  and  there,  coming 
and  going,  to  and  fh),  frY>m  the  four 
comers  of  the  earth.  God  has  made 
everything  fr«e,  and  yet  man  dares  to 
fetter  his  fellow-man."  And  Claude  de 
Clermont  pressed  his  face  against  the 
iron  bars  of  his  cell  in  the  prison  of  La 
Roquette,  and  looked  with  intense  long- 
ing out  into  the  blue  sky  and  misty 
olouda  that  floated  away  serenely  be- 
yond his  line  of  vision. 

Mora  than  seven  months  had  passed 
since  that  morning  when  he  had  said  to 
Tristan,  after  his  mental  conflict  was 
ended,  "There  can  be  nothing  worse 
in  store  for  me  than  what  I  have  suf 
fered  this  night."  A.nd  yet,  since  then, 
he  had  thought  of  those  past  sorrows 
as  trifles  light  as  air  compared  to  the 
anguish  that  seemed  to  consume  him 
in  the  unbroken  silence  of  his  cell. 

He  had  gone  through  a  trial  after  his 
arrest,  which  was  a  farce,  a  mere  mock- 
ery of  justice ;   and  ho  had  been  con- 


demned to  five  years'  imprisonment, 
with  but  little  hope  of  intervention  or 
mediation  from  tho  outside  world. 
When  ho  had  said,  strong  in  tho  con- 
sciousness of  right,  that  he  was  prepared 
to  bear  the  consequences  of  his  own 
acts,  he  had  not  imagined  that  they 
could  bo  so  terrible,  or  so  impossible  to 
endure.  Ho  had  tried  by  every  means 
left  to  him  to  communicate  with  La 
Marquise,  that  ho  might  hear  some 
news  of  Celeste,  and  whether  poor 
Tristan  had  survived  the  shock  of  sep- 
o^'ation.  But  neither  letter  nor  message 
had  been  delivered ;  and  he  had  re- 
mained during  these  seven  long  months 
in  a  state  of  the  most  harrowing  anxiety. 
Ir  flrst  he  had  been  calm  and  patient, 
praying  to  God  for  deliverance,  and 
hoping  against  hope  that  something 
might  occur  to  shorten  the  term  of  his 
sentence.  He  had  great  faith  in  La 
Marquise ;  and  knowing  her  influence 
with  those  in  power,  he  believed  she 
might  efiect  his  release,  or  at  least  dis- 
cover some  means  to  correspond  with 
him.  But  as  weeks  and  months  passed 
by,  and  no  tidings  from  the  outside  world 
came  to  him,  he  began  to  think  that  he 
was  abandoned  to  his  fate  ;  and  then  a 
sort  of  frenzy  tooK  possession  of  him.  He 
paced  like  a  caged  lion  the  narrow  limits 
of  his  cell ;  he  wining  his  hands ;  ho 
implored  God  wildly,  impatiently,  im- 
portunately, to  deliver  him  from  a  living 
death.  He  raged  like  a  tempest  until 
his  strength  was  exhausted,  and  then 
he  would  throw  himself  moaning  upon 
his  bed.  All  the  hours  of  tho  solemn 
night  had  heard  his  heai-t-breaking  sobs, 
his  piteous  prayers ;  and  the  gray  dawn 
had  stolen  into  his  grated  window  and 
fouud  him  still  sleepless.  His  prison-fare 
was  like  dry  dust  in  his  parched  mouth ; 
he  loathed  it,  he  could  not  force  himself 
to  eit,  and  the  scanty  supply  of  water  did 
not  allay  the  fever  that  was  consuming 
him.  His  turnkey  often  looked  at  him 
with  a  dreary  shake  of  the  head,  but  he 
could  do  nothing  to  relieve  him;  he 
was  not  a  brutal  man,  he  was  only 
faithful  to  his  trust.  Claude  had 
searched  his  face  with  its  mingled 
expression  of  sarcasm  and  sadness  to 
see  if  he  could  discover  any  hope  of 
assistance ;  but  it  was  discouraging.  It 
revealed  pity,  it  is  true,  but  an  inflexi- 


168 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


ill! 


bio  determination  to  perform  his  duty, 
even  at  the  sacrifice  of  compassion  and 
mercy.  Then  there  came  a  time  when 
his  paroxysms  of  rebellion  and  despera- 
tion exhausted  his  strength,  and  he  was 
as  feeble  and  fretful  as  a  child  ;  weeping 
and  complaining  to  the  dcnf,  insensible 
walls  of  his  cell  as  though  they  wore 
the  merciless  human  beings  who  had 
caused  his  woe.  fiut  that  phase  of 
suffering  did  not  last  long,  and  to  it 
succeeded  a  quiet  hopelessness,  a  resig- 
nation that  was  almost  despair.  At 
times  he  read  and  studied  the  few 
books  that  were  allowed  him.  Again 
he  resorted  to  the  most  trivial  things  to 
divert  his  mind  from  its  anguish;  for 
he  sat  for  hours  with  folded  arms  look- 
ing at  the  stones  of  his  floor,  counting 
them  over  and  over,  mentally  arranging 
them  into  different  patterns,  tracing  in 
their  fractures,  blemishes,  and  stains 
resemblances  to  faces  and  forms  he  had 
seen  during  the  other  life  he  had  lived. 
Sometimes  nearly  whole  days  would 
pass  in  which  he  would  be  absorbed 
by  memory,  living  over  the  scenes  at 
Clermont,  the  free,  wild  life  at  Sarzeau, 
his  wanderings  among  the  mountains, 
his  calm  existence  in  the  valleys,  his 
dreamy  idling  on  the  golden  sands  of 
Quiberon,  his  restless  tossing  on  the 
foam-dressed  waves,  the  rapid,  eager 
motion  of  the  long  walks  over  the  bar- 
ren coast.  All  would  pass  before  him 
in  regular  succession,  like  the  panorama 
of  a  dream  ;  and  then  he  would  return 
to  himself  with  a  start  to  find  his 
glowing  visions,  his  broad  distances,  his 
freedom  of  motion,  bounded  by  four 
narrow  stone  walls,  that  seemed  to 
enclose  him  until  they  pressed  upon  his 
brain  to  suffocation.  At  first  his  win- 
dow had  been  covered  with  a  shutter 
that  only  admitted  a  feeble  light  through 
a  small  aperture ;  within  a  few  days, 
through  the  intercession  of  his  turnkey, 
that  had  been  removed,  and  a  new 
world  opened  before  him.  From  his 
casement  he  could  see  the  backs  of  the 
buildings  on  the  Rue  de  la  Muette,  and 
their  living,  moving  inhabitants  passing 
and  repassing  before  the  open  windows. 
Sometimes  an  honest,  fre^  face  would 
lean  forth  and  look  up  to  the  sky,  and 
then  turn  with  a  motion  of  pity  toward 
the  prison.,     It   was   the  face  of  an 


elderly  woman,  and  she  seemed  to  be 
a  seamstress;  for  she  often  sat  for 
h9urB  with  her  bead  bent  over  her 
work,  and  when  she  arose  it  was  with 
the  air  of  relief  apparent  in  one  who 
has  finished  a  task.  During  nearly  all 
the  long  days  Claude  would  stand  with 
his  face  pressed  against  his  iron  grating, 
watching  every  movement  and  sign  of 
life  in  these  habitations  of  the  poor — 
for  it  was  not  a  quarter  of  the  city  where 
the  rich  resided  —  with  an  interest  felt 
only  by  one  who  is  separated  entirely 
from  the  world  and  its  concerns.  He 
had  come  to  feel  a  sort  of  friendship  for 
this  honest  face,  that  so  often  regarded 
him  with  compassion ;  and  the  little 
window  by  which  she  sat  seemed  a 
haven  where  his  vexed  thoughts  could 
find  repose.  One  morning  he  noticed 
some  imusual  signs;  the  small  panes 
were  being  carefully  washed,  and  fresh 
curtains  were  being  arranged  by  dex- 
terous hands ;  then  some  pots  of  choice 
flowers  were  placed  upon  the  sill,  and  the 
blossoms  were  tied  up  and  watered  with 
the  closest  attention,  and  a  small, 
gilded  cage  with  a  pretty,  spritrhtly 
canary  was  hung  above ;  while  the  back 
of  a  soft-cushioned  crimson  chair  gleamed 
with  a  charming  effect  of  color  between 
the  snowy  lace  of  the  curtains.  "  It  is 
being  prepared  for  an  invalid,"  thought 
Claude,  "  but  what  a  dreary  view  they 
have  selected,  —  the  uninviting  walls  of 
this  prison,  with  rows  of  grated  windows 
against  which  are  pressed  pale,  despair- 
ing faces.  However,  I  suppose  it  cannot 
matter  much  to  one  who  is  near  eternal 
freedom."  While  he  was  thinking  of 
this,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  intent  upon 
the  window,  he  saw  two  men  place  the 
feeble  form  of  a  sick  man  in  the  chair, 
and  then  draw  back,  while  a  woman 
drew  near  with  a  small  glass  in  one 
white  hand,  and  a  fan  aud  smelling- 
bottle  in  the  other;  she  placed  the 
glass  to  the  invalid's  lips  and  fanned 
him  gently,  for  he  seemed  to  have 
fainted  from  exhaustion.  The  man  was 
emaciated  to  a  frightful  degree,  the 
body  bowed  and  deformed ;  while  the 
facn  of  the  woman  who  bent  over  him 
was  like  an  angel's,  with  a  silver  crown 
about  the  head.  "  My  Qod  I "  cried 
Claude,  in  a  voice  that  made  the  stone 
walls  reverberate,  "  it  is  Tristan  and  La 


-J 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


169 


and  ahe  seemed  to  be 
for  she    often   Bat  for 

head   bent  over  her 
she  arose  it  was  with 

apparent  in  one  who 
ik.  During  nearly  all 
lude  would  stand  with 
igainst  his  iron  grating, 
novement  and  sign  of 

itatious  of  the  poor 

uarter  of  the  city  where 
—  with  an  interest  felt 

0  is  separated  entirely 

1  and  its  concerns.  He 
a  sort  of  friendship  for 
that  so  often  regarded 
wsion;  and  the  little 
ch  she  sat  seemed  a 

vexed  thoughts  could 
le  morning  he  noticed 
gns;   the  small  panes 
ully  washed,  and  fresh 
Bing  arranged  by  dex- 
len  some  pots  of  choice 
sd  upon  the  sill,  and  the 
>d  up  and  watered  with 
ention,    and    a  small, 
h  a  pretty,   sprirrhtly 
above ;  while  the  back 
i  crimson  chair  gleamed 
effect  of  color  between 
r  the  curtains.     "  It  is 
)r  an  invalid,"  thought 
lat  a  dreary  view  they 
the  uninviting  walls  of 
HOWS  of  grated  windows 
I  pressed  pale,  despair- 
fer,  I  suppose  it  cannot 
ne  who  is  near  eternal 
>  he  was  thinking  of 
still. fixed  intent  upon 
w  two  men  place  the 
lick  man  in  the  chair, 
»ck,   while  a  woman 
ft  small  glass  in  one 
a  fan  and  smclling- 
ber;   she  placed   the 
lid's  lips  and  fanned 
he  seemed    to    have 
istion.     The  man  was 
K^tfhl    degree,   the 
leformed;   while  the 
■who  bent  over  him 
If  with  a  silver  crown 
"My  God  I"  cried 
that  made  tho  stone 
'  it  is  Tristan  and  La 


M 


Mhrquise ;  dear,  suffering  Tristan ! "  And 
for  a  moment  it  seemed  as  though  he 
must  wrencb  away  the  bars  and  fly 
to  him ;  but  no,  he  could  not,  so  he 
only  pressed  his  face  against  them  and 
bathed  thorn  with  his  tears.  When 
Tristun  was  sufficiently  reoovere(^  to 
move,  ill.:  first  act  was  to  lean  from  the 
window  ind  fix  his  hollow  eyes,  with  a 
searohi  u^  scrutiny,  on  the  walls  of  La 
Roquctte,  while  Aim^e  supported  his 
head  and  looked  with  him.  Claude 
could  SCO  their  gaze  follow  the  line  of 
windows  until  it  rested  upon  his.  Al- 
most frantic,  he  pressed  his  face  against 
the  bars  with  a  force  that  wounded  him, 
and  waved  his  hand  and  kissed  it, 
going  through  a  pantomime  of  the  most 
extravagant  joy.  in  a  moment  the 
signs  wore  returned ;  they  had  recog- 
nized him,  even  through  his  bars.  And 
Tristan,  folding  his  arms  over  his  heart, 
and  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  fell  back 
in  his  chair  with  a  smile  of  ecstasy 
irradiating  his  wan  face.  La  Marquise 
waved '  her  white  hand,  and  kissed  it 
over  and  over,  her  eyes  beaming  with 
joy;  then  she  drew  back,  and  leaning 
over  Tristan  she  ministered  to  him  with 
the  tenderness  and  gentleness  of  a 
mother,  to  show  Claude  that  his  poor 
Buffering  servant  was  cared  for  by  her ; 
that  she  had  not  neglected  him,  neither 
had  she  forgotten  her  promise  to  assist 
her  he  loved.  A  burden  seemed  to  fall 
from  him,  and,  overcome  with  gratitude 
and  joy,  he  sank  upon  his  knees  and 
poured  out  his  soul  in  thanksgiving  to 
God. 

Every  day  this  affecting  pantomime 
was  repeated ;  every  morning  with  the 
earliest  dawn  Claude  was  at  his  case- 
ment, his  face  pressed  against  the  bars, 
his  eyes  devouring  the  opposite  window, 
until  Tristan  was  placed  in  his  chair, 
and  Aim6e  was  at  his  side,  bending  her 
lovely  face  over  him,  arranging  his  hair 
with  her  soft  hands,  feeding  him  with 
the  most  tempting  dainties,  or  support- 
ing his  fainting  head  upon  her  bosom. 
Sometimes  the  dying  hunchback  would 
rally  enough  to  lean  from  the  window 
and  make  some  aign  of  love  to  his  idol- 
ized master.  He  would  kias  his  hand, 
press  it  to  his  heart,  jraint  with  expres- 
sive gestures  of  adoration  to  Aiin^e, 
take  her  white  fingers  in  hia,  and  raise 


them  to  heaven,  making  the  form  of  a 
circle  in  tho  air  to  denote  eternity ;  and 
then,  folding  his  arms,  he  would  open 
them  suddenly,  waving  them  upward 
like  wings,  to  show  that  he  should  soon 
fly  toward  endless  happiness.  Although 
the  bars  of  a  prison  separated  them, 
yet  their  souls  conversed  together,  and 
held  the  sweetest  intercourse.  The  days 
flew  to  Claude,  and  when  darkness 
dropped  a  curtain  between  them  and 
shut  out  their  beloved  faces,  he  felt  as 
though  he  could  not  endure  the  hours 
until  he  could  look  upon  them  again. 
Every  morning  he  said  to  himself,  know- 
ing how  frail  was  the  poor  life  on  which 
he  fixed  his  hopes,  "  This  day  may  be 
the  last,  or  this  morning  he  may  be 
already  in  paradise." 

About  ten  days  of  this  affecting  in- 
tercourse had  passed,  when  Claude 
knew  that  the  last  one  had  arrived.  He 
was  at  his  casement  as  usual  with  the 
first  beam  of  the  sun,  watching  the  win- 
dow with  earnest,  anxious  eyes.  The 
curtains  wore  drawn,  and  there  was  no 
sign  of  life  until  nearly  midday ;  then 
Alms's  white  hand  opened  the  blinds 
and  waved  a  sad  good-morning  to  him, 
pointing  within  to  show  that  the  invalid 
was  unable  to  leave  his  bed,  after  which 
she  closed  the  window  and  returned  to 
her  attendance  at  his  side.  All  through 
the  day  Claude  remained  at  his  post  in 
a  state  of  anxiety  difficult  to  describe. 
From  time  to  time  Aim£e  would  appear, 
make  a  sad  signal,  and  then  withdraw. 
When  the  afternoon  was  declining,  and 
the  shadow  of  the  prison  fell  long  and 
gaunt  across  the  court-yard,  and  the 
swallows  inhabiting  the  niches  in  the 
massive  wall  began  to  make  active  prep- 
arations for  their  evening  meal,  Claude 
saw  the  window  opened  and  the  curtain 
drawn  aside ;  then  two  men  appeared, 
laying  the  motionless  form  of  Tristan 
in  his  chair,  while  Aimte  supported  his 
head.  At  first  he  thought  the  spirit 
had  already  taken  flight,  and  that  it  was 
'  le  poor  clay  they  had  placed  there  for 
him  to  look  upon,  so  still,  so  white,  and 
lifeless  did  he  seem.  No,  he  was  still 
living;  for  Aim4e's  gentle  hand  was 
placing  a  cordial  to  his  lips,  and  his 
feeble  fingers  were  moving  upon  his 
breast  with  a  faint  fluttering  motion 
like  tho  wing  of-  a  dying  bird.     Aft«r  a 


MWi|»V<i 


160 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


few  moments  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
raised  bis  head  to  take  a  farewell  of  his 
beloved  master.  He  tried  to  clasp  his 
bonds  to  show  bis  happiness,  but  they 
fell  powerless.  He  turned  his  face  up- 
ward with  a  smile  of  ineffable  peace, 
raised  one  thin,  trembling  finger  toward 
heaven,  and  then  eaak  back  into  Aimeo's 
arms.  The  last  beams  of  the  sun 
touched  with  a  benediction  the  silvery 
halo  of  her  hair,  and  rested  upon  the 
white  forehead,  the  hollow  check,  and 
closed  lids  of  Tristan,  as  La  Marquise 
watched  the  breath  flutter  from  between 
his  parted  lips  that  mummrcd  her  name 
with  his  master's  until  thoy  were  silent 
forever;  then  Claude  saw  her  lay  the 
poor,  lifeless  head  back  upon  the  pillow, 
press  a  long  kiss  on  the  placid  brow, 
and  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  his 
still  heart,  and  so  he  knew  that  the 
aching,  deformed  body  was  free  from 
pain  forever,  and  the  freed,  happy  soul 
was  at  rest  with  God.  Aim^e  wiped 
away  her  tears  and  raised  her  eyes  up- 
ward, seeming  to  say  to  him,  "A  little 
longer  and  we  shall  weep  no  more." 
Then  the  shadow  of  night  fell  between 
them,  and  Claude,  crushed,  overwhelmed, 
dissolved  in  tears,  sank  upon  his  misera- 
ble bed,  and  wept  and  prayed  away  the 
dreary  hours. 

Three  months  more  had  dragged  away 
their  weary  length  since  the  night  of 
Tristan's  departure  for  his  new  home, 
and  Claude  had  watched  in  vain  for  an- 
other glimpse  of  Aim6e's  face.  She 
had  never  come  again.  A  few  days 
after  the  flowers  had  disappeared,  the 
singing  bird  had  been  removed,  and  the 
invalid's  chair  had  been  replaced  by  the 
ordinary  seat  of  the  poor  woman,  who 
again  bent  over  her  work,  raising  her 
head  now  and  then  to  glance  compas- 
sionately at  the  barred  windows  of  La 
Roquette,  and  Claude's  life  had  returned 
to  its  old  monotony,  its  old,  hopeless  res- 
ignation ;  but  he  was  less  miserable 
than  before,  tor  now  he  was  relieved  of 
the  anxiety  that  had  preyed  upon  him. 
He  was  confident  La  Marquise  had  kept 
her  promise  regarding  Celeste,  and  he 
knew  poor  Tristan  was  safely  disposed 
of  for  eternity ;  so  there  was  nothing 
but  his  own  miserable  failure  to  brood 
over,  which  was  not  so  desperate  and 
comfortless,  since  he  had  had  this  brief 


reunion  with  his  old  ties.  He  fouud 
himself  oftcner  looking  toward  the  heav- 
ens than  the  earth.  There  seemed  to 
bo  no  possibilities  of  a  future  for  him. 
His  country  that  he  had  so  loved,  that 
he  still  loved  with  the  deepest  compas- 
sion, was  cruel,  imgrateful,  ur,oonscinus. 
Those  he  had  tried  to  save  had  turned 
upon  him  and  wounded  bim.  His  heart 
had  been  full  of  noble  intentions,  un- 
selfish desires,  and  warm  interest  for 
humanity,  and  humanity  had  crushed 
him,  wrung  his  soul,  and  abandoned 
him  to  despair.  Therefore  he  felt  that 
earth  had  no  place  for  him,  that  he  was 
one  of  the  pariahs  to  whom  God  some- 
times opens  his  doors  when  the  world 
drives  them  out.  He  prayed  often  — 
not  hoping  for  mercy  from  man  —  that 
a  Divine  power  would  interpose  and 
shorten  the  term  of  his  punishment; 
that  his  prison  doors  might  be  opened, 
not  to  a  feeble,  exhausted  body,  but  to 
a  triumphant,  exulting  soul  that  had 
left  behind  its  garment  of  tears  and 
scars. 

Op  .  afternoon  he  sat  on  the  edge  of 
his  narrow  bed,  his  hands  clasped  list- 
lessly, his  sad  eyes  searching  the  intense 
blue  of  a  June  heaven,  striving  if  per- 
chance he  might  discover  some  angel 
face  smiling  upon  him  from  the  trans- 
parent ether,  when  a  noise  at  his  door 
startled  him.  It  was  not  the  hour  for 
the  turnkey's  visit,  and  this  unusual 
interruption  filled  him  with  surprise. 
He  started  to  his  feet  with  an  eagerness 
that  showed  how  hope  always  lives 
within  us,  and  looked  with  parted  lips 
breathlessly,  as  the'  heavy  door  rolled  ' 
back  on  its  hinges,  and  admitted  a 
woman,  wrapped  in  a  dark  mantle,  with 
a  heavy  veil  covering  her  face. 

"  Remember,  madam,  an  hour  is  not 
long,"  said  the  turnkey,  as  he  closed 
the  door. 

"  Aim6e  ! "  cried  Claude,  as  she  threw 
aside  her  veil. 

"Claude,  dear  Claude!"  and  she 
threw  herself  weeping  into  his  arms. 

For  a  moment  they  sobbed  passion- 
ately together;  then  she  drew  away 
from  his  embrace,  saying,  "  We  have  no 
time  to  waste  in  weeping,  for  I  have 
much  to  say,  and  an  hour  is  nothing." 

"  You  have  been  ill,"  said  Claude, 
looking  at  her  changed  face  soiTowfullj. 


v'lrT 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR 


IGl 


old  ties.     He  found 
:ing  toward  the  heav- 
Thore  seemed  to 
a  future  for  him. 
le  had  so  loved,  that 
"  e  deepest  compas- 
tteful,  Hr.eonBcious. 
to  save  had  turned 
ided  b.m.     His  heiui; 
loblo  intentions,  un- 
I   warm  interest  for 
imanity  had  crushed 
"^ul,  and  abandoned 
lerefore  ho  felt  that 
for  him,  that  he  was 
to  whom  God  some- 
>or8  when  the  world 
He  prayed  often  — 
■cy  from  man  —  that 
vculd  interpose  and 
of  his  punishment; 
)r8  might  bo  opened, 
haueted  body,  but  to 
ilting  soul  that   had 
innent  of  tears  and 

le  sat  on  the  edge  of 
is  hands  clasped  list- 
searching  the  intense 
iayen,  striving  if  per- 
discover  some  angel 
him  from  the  trans- 
i  a  noise  at  his  door 
ivas  not  the  hour  for 
it,  and  this  unusual 

him  with  surprise, 
eet  with  an  eagerness 

hope  always  lives 
ked  with  parted  lips 
e-  heavy  door  rolled  ' 
Bs,  and  admitted  a 
I  a  dark  mantle,  with 
ng  her  face, 
dam,  an  hour  is  not 
mkey,  as  he  closed 

Claude,  as  she  threw 

Claude!"  and  she 
ing  into  his  arms, 
hey  sobbed  passion- 
BU  she  drew  away 
lying,  «  We  have  no 
veeping,  for  I  have 
I  hour  is  nothing." 
1  ill,"  said  Claude, 
jed  face  BoiTowfiilljr. 


Her  complexion  was  pale,  —  the  sickly, 
opaque  pallor  of  parchment ;  her  cheeks 
had  lost  their  roundness,  her  temples 
were  sunken,  showing  the  blue  veins 
through  which  ebbed  and  flowed  the 
sluggish  tide  of  life,  while  her  great 
eyes  seemed  to  float  in  purple  shadowe, 
and  her  white,  transparent  hands  had 
the  vngue,  languid  motion  and  the 
cold  damp  of  those  who  are  already 
touched  with  the  last  chill. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  ill,  very  ill,  ever 
since  poor  Tristan  died,  or  I  should  not 
have  loft  you  alone  so  long.  I  should 
have  visited  you  at  the  window  every 
day." 

"  How  did  you  learn  where  my  cell 
was  situated  1 " 

"Through  bribing  an  officer.  0 
Claude,  I  have  almost  moved  heaven 
and  earth  in  my  effort  to  release  you. 
I  have  been  myself  on  my  knees  to  the 
Emperor." 

"  For  me  1  0  Aim6e,  I  have  not 
deserved  this!" 

"  Yes,  for  you ;  but  he  would  not 
listen  to  me.  Ho  who  once  courted  my 
smiles  refused  me  the  only  favor  I  ever 
asked  of  him.  May  God  punish  him  as 
ho  deserves !  Do  you  know  why  he 
refused  me  1 "  she  cried,  with  a  flash 
of  her  old  fire.  "  It  was  because  I  had 
lost  my  beauty,  my  charm.  My  power 
went  with  it.  I  did  not  flash  upon 
him  in  my  former  splendor,  as  La  Mar- 
quise, the  most  lovely  lady  in  Paris, 
but  I  tottered  before  him,  pale  and 
weak,  an  unhappy  suppliant ;  and  he 
had  no  ear  for  my  prayer,  no  smiles, 
no  false  flattery.  He  refused  me,  and 
dismissed  me  coldly.  Then  I  implored 
the  influence  of  those  beneath  him 
in  power,  but  I  failed.  All  I  could 
gain  was  permission  to  see  you  .for  one 
hour.  0  my  God,  how  I  hate  the 
world,  the  cringing,  false,  cruel,  unjust 
world  !  I  have  tested  it,  and  hate  it, 
and  thank  God  with  every  breath  that 
I  am  nearly  done  with  it.  What  is  a 
woman's  power  1  Her  beauty,  her  mir. 
erable,  perishable  beauty ;  and  when 
sickness  and  suffering  take  that  away, 
she  is  helpless.  I  once  boasted  that  I 
could  command  and  I  should  be  obeyed. 
Now  I  entreat,  and  no  one  listens.  0 
Claude,  I  would  willingly  have  given 
my  life  to  have  saved  you  from  this, 
11 


but  it  is  not  of  enough  value  to  shorten 
your  imprisonment  by  one  day." 

"  I  implore  you,  Aimie,  not  to  add 
to  my  suffering  the  memory  of  such 
bitter  words.  To  me  you  have  been 
an  angel  of  mercy.  Your  goodness  to 
poor  Tristan  removed  a  heavy  burden 
from  my  weary  life.     And  Celeste  1 " 

"  She  is  provided  for,  Claude  ;  she  is 
free.  You  can  now  love  her  without 
sin.  A  few  weeks  ago  Sir  Edward  was 
found  dead  in  his  bed.  Celeste  is  a 
widow." 

Claude  seemed  so  paralyzed  by  this 
news  that  he  made  no  reply. 

"  I  bought  Monthelon.  I  searched 
everj'where  for  her.  One  day  I  was  pass- 
ing the  Mont  de  Pi^t^,  and  slic  and  Eliz- 
abeth came  out ;  they  were  dressed  so 
poorly  that  I  scarce  recognized  them. 
They  had  been  to  pawn  their  last  article 
of  value.  Now  they  are  living  at  Mon- 
thelon, comfortable,  and  God  knows  I 
hope  they  are  happy." 

"You  are  an  angel,"  cried  Claude, 
clasping  her  thin  hands  in  his.  "O 
that  I  may  live  to  show  my  gratitude ! " 

"Tristan  died  happy,  after  ho  saw 
you.  His  sorrow  was  heart-breaking 
when  you  were  taken  away.  I  think 
he  never  ceased  to  weep  until  death 
dried  his  eyes.  However,  when  I  knew 
that  La  Roquette  could  bo  seen  from 
the  window  of  a  seamstress  who  woriied 
for  me,  I  did  not  allow  myself  to  rest 
until  I  discovered,  by  bribes  and  en- 
treaties, that  your  cell  was  on  the  side 
visible.  Then  poor  Tristan,  altlioogh 
the  doctor  said  he  was  dying,  implored 
so  pitifully  to  be  brought  here,  that  ! 
complied ;  and  the  sight  ol"  your  face, 
even  between  bars,  rendered  his  lose 
hours  blissful.  And  he  went  to  heaven 
strong  in  the  faith  that  I  was  all-power^ 
ful,  and  would  in  the  end  secure  your 
freedom.  I  have  tried,  Claude,  but  I 
have  failed,  and  the  faiL\^e  is  killing 
me ;  every  day  that  you  remain  here 
takes  one  week  from  my  life." 

"  0  Aim€e,  do  not  suffer  so  for  me,  I 
am  not  worthy  of  it." 

"  I  brought  all  your  sorrow  upon  yon 
by  my  folly  and  passion,  and  my  re- 
morse is  consuming  me." 

"Do  not  accuse  yourself,  it  is  God's 
doings,  and  he  cannot  be  unjust.  Let 
us  bow  to  his  will  together.    Our  sor- 


IG2 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


■     < 


row8  will  end  when  eternity  opens  its 
portals  to  us;  lot  us  wait  patiently, 
dear  Aioi^e,  until  that  moment  arrives." 

"  Ah,  my  God !  it  is  true,  there  is 
nothing  enduring  here  but  sorrow  and 
tears ;  when  they  end  we  are  at  rest  for- 
ever. I  have  prayed  for  you,  I  have 
wept  for  you,  more  than  for  myself. 
Your  name  is  branded  upon  my  heart. 
I  tell  you  it  now,  because  by  that  you 
will  know  with  what  suffering  I  have 
made  my  expiation.  My  pride  is  dead, 
slain  by  my  own  hand ;  my  vanity  is 
clothed  in  ashes ;  my  ambition  is  but  for 
a  grave  where  you  may  sometimes  drop 
a  tour.  There  is  only  one  who  can  pro- 
cure your  release,  —  the  one  who  de- 
nounced you,  who  betrayed  you,  the 
Judas  who  later  will  be  consumed  with 
remorse  as  I  now  am.  I  shall  go  to 
him  and  on  my  knees  implore  him  to 
undo  the  work  he  has  done.  I  shall 
bow  before  the  man  I  hate,  because  he 
has  wronged  you,  even  though  he  has 
heaped  favors  upon  me.  I  shall  tell 
him  of  your  noble  renunciation,  which 
I  learned  from  Tristan,  —  how  you  cour- 
ageously gave  him  the  proofs  that  con- 
ferred his  title,  his  honorable  birth, 
upon  him ;  and  if  that  godlike  act  does 
not  touch  his  nature,  then  he  is  alto- 
gether inhuman,  a  monster  fit  only  for 
the  fires  of  hell." 

"^l  entreat  of  you  not  to  humble 
yourself  to  the  Comte  de  Clermont." 
Claude  winced  when  he  applied  his  for- 
mer title  to  his  enemy,  but  he  did  it 
knowing  it  was  his  by  every  right.  "  It 
will  be  useless,  he  is  invulnerable ;  nei- 
ther prayers  nor  tears  can  avail  for  me." 
■  "  I  shall  go,  nevertheless.  It  is  nearly 
a  year  since  he  saw  me ;  perhaps  when 
he  looks  upon  my  changed  face  his 
heart  will  soften.  I  will  leave  nothing 
undone  to  make  you  happy  at  last. 
You  will  be  free,  you  will  marry  Celeste. 
And  if  you  but  bless  my  memory,  my 
Boul  in  paradise  will  know  it  and  rejoice, 
and  my  poor  heart  will  throb  in  the 
silence  and  darkness  of  my  grave." 

"Aimie,  my  beloved  sister!"  cried 
Claude,  entirely  overcome  with  emotion, 
"my  good  angel,  I  adore  you  with  an 
adoration  holier  than  any  earthly  affec- 
tion ;  my  love  for  you  is  something  sub- 
lime and  reverent,  worthy  to  be  eter- 
nal.    0,  why  have  I  known  you  so  late  ! 


or  was  I  blind,  that  I  did  not  discover 
the  beauty  and  nobility  of  your  nature 
long  before  1  But  now  that  wo  have 
come  to  understand  each  other,  why 
speak  as  though  this  parting  was  for- 
ever 1  We  may  both  be  happy  for  many 
years,  my  beloved ;  but  if  we  miss  the 
fruition  of  our  hopes  on  earth,  we  shall 
find  them  hereafter.  Let  us  forget  the 
pains  and  passions  of  life,  its  disappoint- 
ments and  regrets,  and  look  calmly  for- 
ward to  that  complete  existence  which 
we  are  being  schooled  for  by  the  faith- 
ful hand  of  God." 

They  sat  side  by  side  on  the  hard 
couch,  where  Claude  had  so  often  wept 
away  the  long  hours  of  the  night,  with 
clasped  hands  and  tear-drenched  face. 
An  arrow  of  stmlight  struck  across  the 
stone  wall,  and  fell  lower  and  lower 
until  it  reached  the  silvery  waves  of 
Aim^e's  hair ;  there  it  rested  a  moment, 
and  then  passed  away  in  scattered  ra- 
diance, like  the  beams  of  glory  sur- 
rounding the  head  of  a  saint.  The  hour 
had  gone,  but  a  moment  remained,  and 
still  they  sat  looking  into  each  other's 
faces,  silent  and  solemn,  for  both  felt 
that  it  was  for  the  last  time,  that  now 
the  supreme  pain  of  the  moment  of 
parting  forever  on  earth  had  arrived, 
and  neither  had  power  to  utter  the  fare- 
well. At  length  the  steps  of  the  turn- 
key outside  aroused  them,  and  Aim^e 
said  in  a  faint,  broken  voice,  "  Courage, 
dear  heart,"  while  she  clasped  the  hand 
of  Claude  as  though  they  stood  in  the 
face  of  some  terrible  danger.  "  Courage, 
this  is  our  last  parting ;  when  we  meet 
again  my  happy  face  will  wear  the 
smiles  of  youth,  and  thou  shalt  look  at 
me  with  eyes  free  from  tears." 

"  The  hour  is  up,"  cried  the  turnkey, 
throwing  open  the  door. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  free,  Claude ;  courage 
and  hope,  thoi  shalt  be  free.  My  love 
has  ruined  thee,  but  it  shall  end  in  sal- 
vation. One  lost  embrace.  Thou  wilt 
smile  on  me  in  eternity." 

Claude  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  cover- 
ing her  foce  with  tears  and  kisses,  while 
he  sobbed,  "  God  bless  thee,  my  darling, 
God  bless  thee ! " 

"  Farewell.  Thou  knowest  how  I  love 
thee,  therefore  I  have  not  suffered  in 
vain.  It  will  not  be  long  until  we  meet 
again.  Courage,  patience,  dear  Clai'.dc." 


im-.Wik.i. 


npwH 


that  I  did  not  discoTcr 
nobility  of  your  nature 
iBut  now  that  wo  have 
itand  each  other,  why 
:h  this  parting  was  for- 
both  be  happy  for  many 
ed ;  but  if  we  miss  the 
[hopes  on  earth,  wo  shall 
"^er.  Let  us  forget  the 
•ns  of  life,  its  disappoint- 
ets,  and  look  calmly  for- 
^omplete  existence  which 
chooled  for  by  the  faith- 
4." 

lo  by  side  on  the  hard 
laude  had  so  often  wept 
hours  of  the  night,  with 
and  tear-drenched   face, 
inlight  struck  across  the 
i  fell   lower  and   lower 
>d  the  silvery  waves  of 
here  it  rested  a  moment, 
jd  away  in  scattered  ra- 
le   beams   of  glory  sur- 
ead  of  a  saint.    The  hour 
1  moment  remained,  and 
ooking  into  each  other's 
id  solemn,  for  both  felt 
the  last  time,  that  now 
)ain  of  the  moment  of 
p  on  earth  had  arrived, 
d  power  to  utter  the  fare- 
th  the  steps  of  the  turn- 
roused  them,  and  Aim^e 
broken  voice,  "  Courage, 
lile  she  clasped  the  hand 
lough  they  stood  in  the 
Tible  danger.    "  Courage, 
parting;  when  we  meet 
)py  face   will  wear  the 
,  and  thou  shalt  look  at 
'ee  from  tears." 
8  up,"  cried  the  turnkey, 
the  door. 

be  free,  Claude ;  courage 
shalt  be  free.  My  love 
>,  but  it  shall  end  in  sal- 
ast  embrace.  Thou  wilt 
eternity." 

*d  her  in  his  arms,  cover- 
;h  tears  and  kisses,  while 
id  bless  thee,  my  darling, 

rhoii  knowest  how  I  love 
I  have  not  suffered  in 
)t  be  long  imtil  we  meet 
,  patience,  dear  Clai-.de." 


A  CROWN  FROM  TEE  SPEAR. 


163 


o 


And  then  she  pressed  his  hand  again  in 
}  'in,  and  smiled  with  an  expression  of 
ir.gelic  sweetness;  and  looking  back 
from  the  door  smiled  again,  raising  her 
sad  eyes  upward.  And  so  she  passed 
from  bis  sight  forever. 


PART  ELEVENTH. 

A   DAi    OF   WRATH. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  study  at 
Clermont  but  the  faint  light  from  the 
dying  embers  in  the  chimney.  Day 
had  gone,  and  the  soft  shadows  of  even- 
ing had  crept  in  unnoticed  by  the 
Archbishop,  who  sat  in  bis  carved  chair 
by  the  table,  on  which  lay  the  neglected 
instruments  of  his  occult  studies,  his 
head  bowed  in  his  hands,  absorbed  in 
thought.  It  was  just  one  year  since 
the  night  be  had  refused  La  Marquise 
the  favor  she  had  implored,  and  he  hod 
not  seen  her  since,  nor  had  she  shown 
any  signs  of  relenting,  after  the  stem 
and  haughty  manner  in  which  she  had 
dismissed  him  from  her  presence.  If 
he  had  foreseen  what  suffering  his  ban- 
ishment would  bring  upon  him,  he 
might  have  hesitated  before  he  pro- 
nounced the  fatal  word  that  doomed 
him  to  such  a  punishment.  But  he  was 
not  clairvoyant  enough  to  understand 
how  much  greater  was  her  love  than 
her  gratitude  ;  and  he  was  wounded  to 
the  quick,  that  she,  forgetting  all  his 
kindness  and  favors,  should  espouse  the 
cause  of  another,  and  treat  him  with 
insult  and  scorn  because  he  had  refused 
to  do  the  same.  He  had  said  over  and 
over  to  himself,  "  If  she  should  come  to 
me  and  implore  my  forgiveness  on  her 
knees,  I  would  not  pardon  her.  Her 
ingratitude,  her  cruelty,  have  imbittered 
my  heart  against  her.  My  Aimde,  the 
little  girl  I  saved  from  want  and  suffer- 
ing, and  educated  and  cared  for  as 
though  she  bad  been  my  own,  died 
indeed  that  day  when  she  disappeared 
from  Clermont.  I  never  again  found 
her  in  the  haughty,  imperious  Marquise 
de  Ventadour;  still  I  supposed  I  had 
some  claims  upon  her  affection  and 
consideration,  but  she  has  disappointed 
me,  she  has  proved  herself  as  thankless 


as  the  perfidious  ingrates  who  turn 
upon  you  and  sting  you  after  you  have 
warmed  them  to  life.  I  will  dismisii  her 
from  my  heart ;  she  is  dead  to  me,  I 
will  think  of  her  no  more."  Although 
he  hod  determined  to  banish  her  abso- 
lutely from  his  thoughts,  ho  had  failed 
to  do  it,  for  she  haunted  him  pursis- 
tently,  and  his  life  was  but  ono  long 
desire  to  see  her  again  and  to  effect  a 
reconciliation.  Still  he  had  defeated 
his  own  wishes ;  for  bitterly  and  re- 
vengefully he  had  at  once  denounced 
Claude  to  the  government,  and  pro- 
cured his  arrest,  after  the  failure  of 
their  efforts  to  remove  him  privately. 
At  last  his  vengeance  was  complete,  for 
with  the  news  of  Claude's  arrest  camo 
the  long-missing  proofs  that  disinher- 
ited the  unfortunate  young  man,  and 
installed  him  in  his  place.  Where  these 
papers  came  from  was  a  profound  mys- 
tery to  the  Archbishop.  He  sometimes 
thought  that  Justin  Qautier  hod  played 
him  false,  that  he  had  gained  possession 
of  the  proofs,  and  retained  them  for 
some  roason  of  his  own,  until  when 
dying  he  hod  repented  and  caused  them 
to  be  sent  to  him  in  this  singular  man- 
ner. Then  again  everything  seemed  to 
contradict  that  supposition,  and  he  was 
more  puzzled  and  uncertain  than  be- 
fore ;  for  he  wished  mjst  earnestly  to 
know  who  had  resigned  these  important 
papers,  after  keeping  them  back  for 
more  than  forty  years.  However,  this 
very  natural  curiosity  did  not  prevent 
him  from  enjoying  to  the  full  his  new 
honors.  Since  the  day  he  had  hoard 
from  his  dying  mother  that  ho  was  the 
rightful  heir  of  Clermont,  he  had  never 
for  one  hour  forgotten  his  intention, 
his  determination,  to,  reinstate  himself, 
and  prove  his  mother's  innocence,  no 
matter  at  what  cost.  It  had  been  in 
reality  the  aim  of  his  life.  Ho  had 
kept  his  own  counsel,  his  name,  his 
purpose,  a  secret  from  all  but  Justin 
Gautier,  whom  he  had  discovered  in 
the  released  convict  who  defied  God  in 
the  sombre  gloom  of  the  park  of  Cler- 
mont. From  that  moment  the  two  had 
worked  together,  professedly  for  the 
same  purpose ;  but  while  the  wretched 
man  had  but  the  One  object,  which  was 
to  crush  and  ruin  the  son  of  the  man 
he  hated,  Fabien  had  the  double  desire 


iw'i"niiiiiiniiim 


104 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPPLVR. 


1" 


of  revongo  and  sclf-aggrandizomont  to 
urgo  him  on  to  the  couaummation  of  his 
plana.  Now,  after  yoara  of  anxioua 
■earch,  uaolesa  labor,  and  diaappoint- 
mont,  auddcnly,  when  ho  had  almoat 
coasod  to  hope  that  hia  greatest  ambi- 
tion woa  to  be  realized,  these  proofs 
had  been  placed  mysterioualy  in  hia 
handa,  nnd  without  the  alighteat  oppo- 
sition he  had  taken  poaaoHsion  of  hia 
long-covctod  inheritance  and  title.  Now 
indeed  ho  had  arrived  at  the  aunimtt 
of  earthly  proapority,  he  was  Count  of 
Clermont  and  Archbishop  of  Rouen ; 
an  important  peraonage  in  both  Church 
and  State.  But  for  aome  reason,  when 
bo  rode  in  grand  equipage  from  the 
Bishop's  palace,  which  he  often  did,  to 
paas  several  daya  in  each  week  at  his 
oh&tenu  of  Clermont,  it  aeemed  as 
though  he  were  going  to  hia  own  burial, 
and  that  the  beautiful  pile  he  had  ao 
deaired  to  poaseas  was  a  magnificent 
tomb  prepared  for  his  reception.  The 
▼ast,  lofty  rooms  seemed  to  chill  him, 
and  the  silence  appalled  him ;  the 
Btudy,  that  once  had  been  his  favorite 
resort,  now  made  him  shudder  when  he 
entered  it,  for  his  morbid  imagination 
filled  it  with  impalpable  forms,  and 
every  shadow  was  haunted  by  pallid, 
reproachful  faces.  Sometimes  the  skull 
that  looked  from  its  iron  casement 
would  assume  the  face  of  the  former 
Comte  de  Clermont,  and,  from  the  hol- 
low orbits,  eyes  filled  with  lurid  light 
ecemod  to  gaze  intently  upon  him,  and, 
whichever  way  he  turned,  those  same 
eyes  followed  him,  piercing,  inquiring, 
steadfast,  until,  almost  terrified,  he 
would  rush  from  the  room  to  find 
relief  in  pacing  hurriedly  the  long  ave- 
nues of  the  park.  Again  Aimiie  seemed 
to  fill  the  place  with  her  presence, 
mocking,  laughing,  singing,  coaxing,  the 
wayward  sprite  that  hod  transformed 
the  stern  silence  of  the  ch&teau  into 
merry  music ;  or,  haughty,  scornful,  bit- 
tor,  she  seemed  to  stand  before  him, 
pointing  imperiously  to  the  door  while 
she  said  in  tones  that  made  him  shiver, 
"  Go,  Judas,  go ;  I  have  looked  upon 
thee  for  the  last  time."  Then  the  scene 
would  change,  and  she  would  approach 
him  pale,  wan,  solemn,  and  taking  him 
by  the  hand  would  lead  him  forth 
through  long  stone  galleries,  damp  and 


odious  with  prison  smells,  and  heavy 
with  fbul  vapors,  until  they  reached  u 
barred  door  which  she  wotdd  throw 
open  to  reveal  a  dark,  narrow  cell  whero 
sat  a  young  man,  on  the  edge  of  a 
miserable  pallet,  listless,  hopeless,  with 
swollen  eyes  aitd  haggard,  despairing 
face.  Then,  pointing  to  the  forlorn  pic- 
ture, she  would  fix  her  deep  eyes  upon 
him  and  say,  "  There  ia  thy  work  ac- 
complished.' In  no  matter  what  place 
he  was,  the  same  scenes  passed  before 
him.  During  the  solemn  ceremonies 
in  Notre  Dame,  when  he  bowed  his 
mitred  head  before  the  altar,  a  voico 
seemed  to  whisper  to  him,  "  Prepare 
for  a  day  of  wrath  ;  prepare  for  a  day 
of  wrath  " ;  and  a  phantom-like  proces- 
sion seemed  to  mingle  with  the  smoke 
of  the  incense  rising  and  floating  away 
into  the  ahadowa  of  the  vaulted  roof, 
while  they  looked  back  upon  him  re- 
proachfully, ominously,  threateningly. 
He  had  swallowed  eagerly  the  long- 
desired  draught  of  gratified  revenge 
and  ambition  that  he  had  distilled  from 
the  tears  of  his  victims,  and  it  had 
turned  to  liquid  fire  within  him.  It 
was  consuming  him,  torturing  him, 
rendering  his  days  miserable  and  his 
bights  a  burden.  Yet  still  he  endured, 
for  his  hateful  pride  would  not  allow 
him  an  antidote.  He  had  planted 
thorns  in  his  pillow,  and  he  did  not 
intend  to  complain  because  they  pierced 
him.  Now,  as  ho  sat  alone  in  the 
gathering  gloom,  he  was  absoflied  in  a 
sort  of  retrospective  view  of  his  life, 
following  ntep  by  step  his  own  ascent 
up  the  ladder  of  prosperity,  until  he 
had  reached  all  but  the  topmost  round, 
on  which  rested  the  coveted  hat  of  a 
cardinal.  As  in  imagination  he  leaned 
forward  to  grasp  it,  the  structure  gave 
way  beneath  him  and  precipitated  him 
suddenly  from  his  ambitious  height 
down  to  the  ghostly  silence  of  his 
gloomy  study.  Springing  up  he  pulled 
the  bell  violently,  for  he  could  not 
endure  darkness;  and  as  the  servant 
appeared  hurriedly  at  his  imperative 
summons,  he  said  in  a  stem,  harsh 
voice,  "  Why  do  you  leave  me  here 
without  either  light  or  firel" 

"Monneigneur  did  not  ring,"  returned 
the  man  in  a  timid,  deprecating  voice, 
OS  ho  set  the  candles  upon  the  table, 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SrKAR 


1C& 


}n  smells,  and  heavy 

until  they  reached  u 
ch  she  would  throw 
lark,  narrow  coll  whore 
^n,  on  the  edge  of  a 
listless,  hopeless,  with 
i  haggard,  despairing 
iting  to  the  forlorn  pic- 
ix  her  deep  eyes  upon 
Phore  is  thy  work  ac- 

no  matter  what  place 
;  scones  passed  before 
le  solemn  ceremonies 

when  he  bowed  his 
)re  the  altar,  a  voice 
ler  to  him,  "  Prepare 
th  ;  prepare  for  a  day 
a  phantom-like  proccs- 
ningle  with  the  smoke 
sing  and  floating  away 
s  of  the  vaulted  roof, 
3d  back  upon  him  rc- 
nously,  threateningly, 
'od    eagerly   the   long- 

of  gratified  revenge 
,t  he  had  distilled  from 
I  victims,  and  it  had 
[  fire  within  him.     It 

him,  torturing  him, 
iys  miserable    and  his 

Yet  still  he  endured, 
pride  would  not  allow 
B.  He  had  planted 
lillow,  and  ho  did  not 
in  because  they  pierced 

ho  sat  alone  in  the 
,  he  was  absoflicd  in  a 
Btive  view  of  his  life, 
y  step  his  own  ascent 
•f  prosperity,  until  he 
)ut  the  topmost  round, 

the  coveted  hat  of  a 

imagination  he  leaned 
)  it,  the  structure  gave 
1  and  precipitated  him 

his  ambitious  height 
;bostly  silence  of  his 
Springing  up  he  pulled 
ly,  for  he  could  not 
i;  and  as  the  servant 
dly  at  his  imperative 
lid  in  a  stem,  harsh 
[)  you  leave  me  here 
ight  or  fire  t " 
•  did  not  ring,"  returned 
mid,  deprecating  voice, 
uidles  upon  the  table, 


1   t«  stir  up  the  fire  to  ft 
and  prepared  to  stir  mi 

blaze.  , , .  .  ^^    .„-v    the  bellows 

J^l^^^^^o,  .t  flro  tai- 

more  at  vr°«°"^/,     'S  which  scemcl 

to  indicate  that  no  w  roir.im. 

the  room,  and  equalljr  atrai  l 

..No,  yonmoyso-  ^     ^^^ak-i 

Now.  in  the  ff  ^aze  o^t  ^^^ 

and  the  light  of  the  f  ow    g    ^^^^  ^^ 
changes   durmg  a  year  m  t^ 

the  Archbishop  wore  St  WPF^^  ^^^ 
Tho  hair  that  ff  J^  °^^^^^^  ^^^s  marred 
was  of  an  i^^^tS  stamped  by  passion 
with  lines  '"f '^^/'S'Vois^  wore 
and    w'«o'^«f'    ."f    Jhilo    his    deep- 
fiercely    °«»S  fo^vi  frim  their  shad- 
sot  eyes  ^"o^^*^  „^'; Evasive  expression 
ows  with  the  "°?f  y;,t*Xre  to  seek  for 
of  one  who  knows  not  wno         ^^^^^^^ 

,        peace,  and  his  moutl^  ^^at^^"         eased 
'        gentle  firmness,  .-^^J^^^^^  resolve. 

^ith  cruel   «even*y^^°^  ^^^         j^. 

When  he  arose  ^^P^lo  restlessness, 

polled  by.  J- "5^Kis  once  upright  and 
it  was  evident  that  b«      ^^^^^  ^^^^  ^^ 

vigorous  form  «*» /"     ,   ^  a  time. 
Bhould  have  b^^  '7^gT^e  said,  look- 
..How  the  hours  drag,    «       .    ^  fee- 
ing at  WB/atch  with  th   i^^^^^^^ 

quency  of  o««jX  -"how  the  hours 
to  pass  more  BWimy,  ^^  j^ 

^'^'  "X blo<^ fl-s'low^^^^^^^ 
gone  and  the  blooa  ^^^^  ^^ 

*t^^C  mv  eSnest  ocoVlo^^.  °»? 
short  for  my  e*^  .  »  intentions.  1 
ardent  desires,  my  W  i°     ^  ^^^gn 

elimbed  y^tilTSpt^^n  ^-««i«^  -' 
he  declined  1  sUU  kep       ^  ^ 

"jy  ^l"';;he  duU  routine  of  my  duUes 
through  the  'Wii         ^^  ^M  zenith  I 
and  hefore  day  has  reaene         ^^^  ^^ 

am  fatigiied  ^^^^  ?Tf TJ  „itSre  of  youth, 

0  for  the  I'^^Ij^^^noSow  like  a  light 
that  wears  Its  little  Boi^o  ^^  ^.^^^ 

^rt  SterMaHve?  honored 
while  in  later  J""*  ,  ^hat  corrode 
prosperity  become  h«t^«^  «"\  ^^er  an 

LdWr^^f:^r  aWhoodI  All 
infancy  1    Hadlever^»^^^^  tears, 


..dcold.  Ah,thoya.n;^Jtji^*^jJ 
shine  out  warm  »»d  »"»'  5  onoe  1 
,ackground  f^^^^^tU  in  hav- 
thought  true  fe'Uiy J-  .gnty 

,,g enough toe.it, o^firo mwin^^ .J^  ^ 

of  covering  for  my         -  ^^^  j 

books  I  needed  f»\'"y,'^'"  ^^1  yet  I 
have  all  these  m  "J^X V^e^s  Vu 
am  farther  "'"^y.^'^^f'Jhe  necessities  of 
when  1  only  '^^^'^^^fj^^'  with  their 
life.  Our  wants  .ncroa^o^^^i,„  „,d 
gratification,  and  to  alway  ^^ 

S^verposse^«';^X2imes  defraud 

the  threads  of  ^^  «  *°;"7f  «e  are  just 
in  hopeless  con  «•««      U  ^^,^ 
and  wait  patiently,  will  n  j 

tions  mature  for  ^  profit  ^  ^^ 
not  been  ^"^^'^  «"f  jeath  his  own  hap- 
^«^"nhl\^wh^p2  away  his  life  ^ 
pinoss  than  he  w^"  J^,.        j  ^ight  say 

With  my  P'^^^'^^^^^Sen  a  failure,  for 
that  my  existence  had  been  a^       ^^^^ 

I  have  missed  ^h""  ""JJ,„_     j  cannot 
to  possess,  human  ajccUon^  .^ 

think  of  one  hemg  who  lov^^^^^^^^      ^^, 
the  fate  «?  nie«tal  supeuor  J     ^^^^ 

'^^"'^^  w'^^^we'who  have  so  much,  de- 

are  aspirations  l*"<*'^^^„,*Jy  i^  grati- 
And  there  is  l^  ^^I^Za1T£  to 
tude;  it  i8  a  ^^r^J^i^Xn  defrauded 
earn,  and  even  thenjieis  often  ^^^ 

of  his  wages.     l;Ove,gra  „^ 

alike  dainty  l«^""«V"y[Je  outlived  the 
'n^-  ^^oJtSil^ntimlntal  longings! 
weakness  of  sucti  senu  ^^^^ 

In  other  times, ^J;"*^^^  ^^^    i 

thing  ^^''SXSVe,  St  strange, 
did  desire  love,  her  10  ^  .^^^ 

bewitchmg  eJ^'^t'^iTpent-like  charm, 
my  heart  with  her  serpe  ^^^ 

her  insinuating  g^^^.'^  J^e  is  dead 
her,  1  adored  her  but  n^J  «  ^^  ^hy 
to  me.    0  my  Aimee,  my  ^ 

didyoudefmud^e^f  fle^neat 
toiled  80  hard  to  ^™;  ^^„,  ^^d 
t^U  Z:n  ion.  as  you 


106 


A  CROWN  PROM  THE  SPEAR. 


plonac,  you  will  n(<t  gat  in.  I  have 
utiicr  giiL'Mts  now  tliiit  fill  all  my  heart." 
Atul  hi)  closed  liiH  lipu  with  Btoni  rc- 
Milvo,  while  ho  wiilkod  nwiiy  from  the 
d(j()r  without  replying  to  the  soft  tup, 
tup.  "  1  have  told  that  stupid  Jeun 
never  to  disturb  ino,  never  to  approiuih 
my  door  until  I  summon  him.  And 
yut  ho  dares  to  disobey  mo.  Come 
in,"  ho  crit'd,  in  n  harsh  voice,  as  the 
knock  wns  repeated  a  little  more  im- 
patiently. And  believing  it  to  bo  his 
servant,  ho  turned  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  with  his  most  cruel  expression,  his 
most  forbidding  aspect. 

The  door  softly  oi)uned,  and  in  the 
shadow  stood  a  woman,  draped  from 
head  to  foot  in  mournful  purple,  while 
her  snowy  hair,  pale  face,  and  hollow 
eyes  mode  her  look  more  like  a  spectre 
than  a  human  being.  "  Mon  pire,"  she 
said  softly  and  sweetly  as  she  ap- 
proached him,  "  I  have  come  to  implore 
your  forgiveness.  Your  Aimeo  has  re- 
turned to  you,  penitent.  See,  I  am  no 
longer  thj  imperious  woman  who  drove 
you  from  her  presence  a  year  ago.  I 
am  your  Aim^e,  your  humble,  suifering 
Aim6e.  What,  you  will  not  speak  to 
me,  you  will  not  forgive  me  !  O  mon 
pire,  remember  how  you  loved  me 
once  ;  forget  all  my  ingratitude,  all  my 
cruelty,  and  take  mo  back  again  into 
your  heart."  And  she  laid  her  thin 
hand  gently  on  the  folded  arms  of  the 
Archbishop,  and  looked  into  his  face 
pitcously.  It  might  have  been  a  mar- 
ble face,  with  eyes  of  metallic  glitter, 
for  all  the  life  there  appeared  to  bo  in 
it.  He  did  not  seem  to  see  her,  he  did 
not  seem  to  hear  her,  but  stood  with 
terrible  inflexibility  in  every  line  of  his 
upright  figure. 

Look  at  me,  mon  pire,  cannot  you 
see  that  I  am  dying  1  I  have  risen 
from  my  sick-bed  to  come  to  you. 
My  physician  told  me  it  was  madness, 
it  was  death,  to  do  so  ;  but  still  I  dared 
it,  because  I  could  not  die  without 
your  forgiveness,  because  I  could  not 
die  away  from.  Clermont.  I  have  come 
back  to  my  dear  old  homo,  my  child- 
hood's home,  to  die  in  my  room  where 
I  dreamed  away  my  blessed  girlhood. 
You  will  not  turn  mo  away.  You  are 
master  here.  You  are  Comte  de  Cler- 
mont, but  you  will  not  turn  your  poor 


Aim6o  away  from  your  heart  and  houao. 
Open  your  anus,  and  let  mo  die  there. 
I  have  come  to  thoni  for  shelter.  O 
mon  jiirf,  take  mo  into  your  heart 
again."  And  falling  on  iior  knees,  she 
pressed  her  lips  to  his  hands,  and  wet 
them  with  her  tears. 

The  ArchbiHhop  drow  away,  and 
looked  at  her  as  she  knelt  before  him, 
her  head  bowed,  her  pride  at  his  feet. 
And  as  he  looked,  an  arrow  seemed  to 
pierce  his  soul.  With  a  groan  of  agony 
ho  opened  his  arms  and  cried,  "  Come 
to  my  heart,  come  forever." 

Nearly  a  month  passed,  after  Aim^e's 
return  to  Clermont,  in  tho  most  peace- 
able relation  with  tho  Archljishop.  Ho 
was  gentle,  affbctionatc,  tender  toward 
her,  striving  by  every  means  to  make 
her  forgot  that  ho  had  over  for  a  mo- 
ment treated  her  with  coldness  or  cru- 
elty. And  she  was  tho  old  Aim6e  in 
hor  sweetest  moods,  but  never  again 
the  Aim(ie  that  once  changed  the  stem 
silence  of  tho  chUtcau  into  merry  music. 
Her  voice  was  never  heard  but  in 
feeble,  languid  tones,  whoso  failing 
Hweetncss  seemed  to  have  a  touch  of 
heaven's  melody  in  them.  She  glided 
through  tho  corridors  or  sunny  garden 
walks,  leaning  on  tho  arm  of  tho  Arch- 
bishop, with  a  languor  and  helplessness 
which  was  touching.  She  was  thin  and 
weak  to  a  pitiful  degree,  but  she  suf- 


fered 


no 


pam, 


no  distress. 


When  the  Archbishop,  with  sinking 
heart,  asked  her  phyuician  t!\e  naturo 
of  her  disease,  he  shook  his  bead  sadly, 
and  replied,  "  I  cannot  say,  monscign- 
cur.  It  is  one  of  those  cases  that 
baflle  medical  skill.  She  seems  to  be 
consuming  —  melting  away,  one  might 
call  it  —  under  the  heat  of  an  inward 
fever.  The  mind,  acting  upon  the  body, 
has  wasted  it  until  there  is  no  more 
substance  to  feed  upon  than  there  is  in 
the  sheP  of  a  crystal  vase.  It  is  true, 
the  life  still  flickers  there,  shining  faintly 
through ;  but  a  breath  will  put  it  out, 
monseigneur." 

During  all  this  time  La  Marquise 
had  tried  to  win  the  love,  the  confi- 
dence, the  tender  sympathy  of  the 
Archbishop  by  every  gentle  art.  She 
had  established  the  best  possible  terms 
between  him  and  Celeste,  while  Eliza- 
beth was  her  devoted  and  unwearied 


your  Iicart  and  homo 
"I'd  let  ,no  dio  thcro! 
Itiioiii  for  Hhcltcr.  0 
'»o  into  your  l.eart 
;''fc'««i  Jwr  kneoH.  Hlio 
■"  Ills  hiuidB,  uud  wet 
iiin. 

'/'  d"-"*  away,  and 
'"«  knelt  lieforo  him 
''"r  pride  ut  his  f„ot! 
im  arrow  aoemod  to 
ithagroan  ofuKony 
18  and  cried,  "  Come 
•  forever." 

pnsHcd,  after  Aim(So's 

It,  m  the  most  poace- 

tho  Archbishop.     Ho 

lonato,  tender  toward 

kvcry  means  to  make 

0  had  ever  for  n  tno- 

1  'th  coldness  or  cru- 
ras the  old  Aimde  in 
as,  but  never  nuuin 
cc  changed  the  stern 
«m  into  merry  music. 
I»evcr  heard  but  in 
^•ones     whoso    faili,,,, 

,  to  have  a  touch  of 
P  them.  She  glided 
aors  or  sunny  garden 
tho  arm  of  tho  Arch- 
guor  and  helplessness 
«■  She  was  thin  and 
dogreo.  but  sho  suf- 
distross. 

bishop,  with  sinking 
Vuician  tlxo  nature 
nook  his  head  sadly, 
nnot  say,  monseign- 
thoso   coses    that 
oho  seems  to  be 
S  away,  one  might 
neat  of  an  inward 
ting  upon  the  body, 
there  is   no  more 
on  than  there  is  in 
1  vttso.     It  is  true, 
lerc,  shining  faintly 
tn  will  put  it  out, 

imo  La  Marquise 
°  love,  the  confi- 
ijnipathy  of  the 
gentle  art.  She 
?st  possible  terms 
Bste,  while  Eliza- 
1  and  unwearied 


A  CnOWN  FROM  THE  SPEAIL 


107 


nurHO.  It  wuM  nflboting  to  hoo  these 
thrc'u  wdinou  together,  each  trying  to 
outdo  tho  other  in  detnonstratiouH  of 
love.  (.'<ilcHte,  in  her  deep  mourning, 
sad  and  sufl'ering,  but  patient ;  talking, 
thinking,  and  dreaming  of  ixx^r  ('luiide 
in  hJH  prison-ceil.  While  Aim<Su,  with 
hor  fuublu  flume  of  life  just  ready  to  be 
extinguished,  comforted,  assured,  and 
promised  liur  that  all  would  Im)  well. 
"  The  Arcliljishop  will  not  refuse  me 
when  he  knows  it  is  my  last  request," 
she  said.  "  I  have  not  spoken  of  it 
yet,  because  I  wislied  to  soften  his  heart 
with  my  love,  so  it  would  be  ready  to 
listen  and  melt  at  tho  story  of  poor 
Claude's  suffering.  And  he  does  not 
know  yet  that  it  was  ho  who  sent  the 

E roofs  of  his  inother's  marriage.  When 
0  knows  all,  rest  assured  that  he  will 
use  every  effort  to  release  him  ;  and  ho 
will  not  strive  in  vain,  for  with  his 
jrawerful  iniluenco  he  can  accomplish 
nil  ho  wishes." 

One  evening,  after  a  day  of  excessive 
weakness,  Aim^o  expressed  a  wish  to  be 
dressed  and  assisted  to  the  Archbishop's 
study.  She  had  not  lefl  hor  room,  and 
so  she  hod  not  seen  him  for  the  day. 
Now  she  sent  her  maid  to  say  that  she 
would  spend  tho  evening  with  him. 
"  I  am  very  weak,  dear  Nanon,"  she 
said,  while  sho  leaned  her  head  against 
the  shoulder  of  hor  maid,  who  was 
brushing  out  tho  silver  waves  of  her 
hair.  "  After  I  am  dead,  cut  ofi'  a 
long,  thick  tress,  and  give  it,  with  your 
own  hands,  to  M.  Claude,  when  ho 
returns  to  Clermont.  It  will  be  all 
that  will  remain  of  La  Marquise.  Alas, 
there  is  nothing  loft  of  Aim6e  but  the 
poor  heart  that  will  soon  be  dust  I " 

"  0  madam,  you  will  recover,  you 
will  live  to  see  him  again ! "  cried  Nanon, 
bursting  into  tears. 

"  Yes,  ma  chire,  I  shall  Bee  him  again, 
but  not  here,  not  here." 

When  she  entered  the  study,  the 
candles  were  lit,  and  a  bright  fire  was 
burning  on  the  hearth,  before  which  sat 
the  Archbishop,  benevolent,  bland,  and 
peaceful ;  for  he  did  not  know  how  near 
his  day  of  wrath  had  approached. 
When  he  saw  her,  he  arose  with  a 
warm  smile,  and  led  her  to.  a  large 
easy-chair,  that  had  been  placed  there 
for  her  comfort,  saying,  "You  are  better 


this  evening,  ma  ehhit ;  your  cheek 
has  some  of  its  old  color.  Witliout 
seeing  you,  tho  day  bus  been  entlless. 
Why  did  you  not  come  down  for  u  littiu 
air  ]  (Mormont  is  curing  you  ;  alniudy 
you  are  more  your  old  self.  Why  havo 
you  remained  all  day  in  your  room  1 " 

"  I  was  saving  my  strungtii  for  this 
evening.  I  havo  so  much  to  say  to 
you,  man  pdre.  No,  I  will  not  have  tho 
chair ;  I  wish  to  sit,  for  this  onco,  in  my 
old  place  at  your  feet."  And  nestling 
close  to  hin  side,  she  loaned  her  head 
uix)n  his  arm,  and  raised  hor  eyes  to 
his  with  trust  and  love. 

Thero  was  a  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
while  the  Archbishop  looked  intent  on 
tho  face  upturned  tu  his,  and  perhaps 
for  the  first  time  tho  terrible  change  in 
it  smoto  his  heart  with  a  sharp  piun. 
It  was  indeed  like  a  crystal  vase  through 
which  the  soul  shone  softly. 

"  Alon  pire,"  she  said,  pressing  her 
head  a  little  closer  against  his  arm, 
while  sho  smiled  with  something  of  hor 
old  playfulness,  "  when  Nature  planned 
me,  she  nuido  a  mistake  for  some  reason, 
for  I  am  a  sort  of  a  paradox,  in  a  degree 
unnatural ;  I  might  say  when  I  am 
most  contented,  then  I  am  most  dis- 
contented ;  when  I  am  the  happiest,  then 
I  am  the  most  miserable ;  and  when  I 
am  near  arriving  at  the  consummation 
of  my  ardent  desires,  then  I  wish  it  de- 
ferred. I  havp  been  very  waywanl  and 
sinful,  I  havo  caused  you  much  suffer- 
ing ;  yet  I  sometimes  rejoice  in  it,  for  I 
know  you  will  all  remember  me  becaus'; 
of  tho  scars  I  have  left.  I  have  prayrd 
and  longed  with  inexpressible  longijg 
for  death.  I  have  wished  to  discover 
tho  mysteries  of  eternity,  and  now  '..hey 
are  near  being  revealed  in  all  their  sub- 
lime beauty.  I  gather  this  veil  of  jarth 
around  me,  and  do  not  care  for  the 
crowning  of  my  desires.  Is  it  because 
your  tenderness,  your  love,  hvts  mado 
earth  so  sweet  to  me  at  last  1 "  She  felt 
a  tear  drop  upon  her  forehead,  and  she 
went  on  with  the  most  wintiiug  gentle- 
ness. "You  have  completed  your  good 
work  toward  tho  poor  ch'dd  you  saved 
from  misery,  by  making  her  last  days 
so  peaceful ;  and  you  still  havo  the 
power  to  render  them  oven  blissful.  I 
know  now  you  will  not  refuse  my  last 
request,  the  only  thing  your  poor  Aimdo 


^ 


1G8 


A  CUOVVN   FROM  THE  SI'KAR. 


\«ill  ever  ask."  She  folt  him  Hhivor,  and 
thu  hiuid  sho  clnnpud  grew  iiKidenly 
cold  Hiid  rigid.  "  O  mon  pire,  do  not 
rofimo  mo  now  ;  crown  your  lovo  with 
a  boiiutirul  diiidem  of  morcy.  Forgot 
your  aniuxwity  toward  poor  Clnudo,  and 
roHcuo  hiia  from  hit  terrible  impriiion- 
niunt." 

Tho  Arctihiihop,  still  paler  than  the 
pulu  pleader  who  out  at  bis  feet,  drew 
awny  eoldly  from  her  feverish,  clinging 
'iiuuIh,  and  Haid,  in  a  voice  that  bore 
little  rcHoinhlanco  to  his  former  tones 
of  loving  interest,  "  Aim^o,  you  ask  too 
nuich ;  you  presume  upon  my  pity  and 
love  for  you  to  implore  aHsistunue  for 
Olio  wliom  I  have  no  power  to  assist. 
M,  du  Clermont  is  alone  to  blame  for 
IiIm  punishment,  and  he  must  boar  it  as 
others  have  before  him,  with  patience 
and  fortitude." 

Tho  poor  face  clouded,  and  heavy 
tears  fell  over  her  cheeks.  "  Think  a 
moment,  vwn  pire,  before  you  refuse 
mo.  He  has  committed  no  crimo,  ho 
has  suffered  much,  and  he  is  wasting 
his  life  in  a  dreary  coll.  You,  with 
your  poworAil  influence,  can  procure 
his  roloase  ;  and  beside,"  she  continued 
more  warmlj',  more  impressively,  "you 
owe  him  something;  he  performed 
toward  you  an  act  tndy  noble  and 
heroic." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  It  was  ho  who  sent  you  the  proofs 
of  your  mother's  marriage." 

"  Is  it  possible  1 "  And  his  face  ex- 
pressed the  deepest  surprise,  but  no 
re^onting.  "  How  came  he  possessed 
of  them  ? " 

"He  discovered  them  hidden  in  an 
old  cabinet  at  Sarzeau,  which  had  been 
removed  there  from  Clermont." 

"  And  he  retained  them  for  I  cannot 
say  how  long  a  time;  that  was  truly 
honorable  I " 

"He  did  not  know  you  were  his 
brother  until  he  learned  it  from  my 
unfortunate  father  on  his  dying-bed ; 
M.  de  Clermont  alone  knew  of  the 
existence  of  these  papers.  A  less  hon- 
orable man  might  still  have  retained 
proofs  that  disinherited  him.  Can  you 
not  see  how  noble  an  act  it  was  1 " 

"  No,  I  see  only  a  simple  right.  If 
he  had  not  done  as  he  did,  he  would 
have    been    a  contemptible    villain ! " 


criod  the  Arciibishop,  with  an  explosion 
of  wrath  that  mudo  Aim^e  tremble  and 
draw  away  fVom  his  side. 

"Then,"  slio  said,  hopolossly,  "you 
will  do  nothing  fur  him  1 

"  I  cannot ;  I  have  no  power  to 
change  tho  decree  of  the  state." 

"  0  mon  ph-e,"  she  cried  at  last,  with 
a  supreme  effort,  "  I  implore  you  not 
to  refuse  me ;  I  entreat  you  to  promiNo 
mo  that  you  will  do  what  you  can. 
Think  of  poor  C<^leste;  she  has  loved 
him  so  long,  her  suffering  will  kill  her, 
as  mine  has  killed  me.  Look  at  mo ;  I 
am  dying,  and  every  hour  that  Claude 
remains  in  prison  takes  months  iVom 
my  life.  If  you  have  no  pity  for  him, 
for  Celeste,  have  pity  for  me.  I  have 
suffered  so,  I  have  so  little  time  to  live, 
promise  me,  0  promise  me,  that  you  will 
try  to  save  him,  and  I  will  bless  you 
with  ray  last  breath,  and  I  will  moot 
you  so  joyfUlly  in  heaven.  0  mon  ph-f, 
do  not  refuse  your  Aim^e  the  last 
request  she  will  over  mako  of  you." 
And  falling  on  her  knees  before  him,  she 
clasped  his  hands  and  drenched  them 
with  her  tears. 

The  Archbishop  was  in  terrible  agony, 
the  dawn  of  his  day  of  wrath  had  come. 
He  stood  up  and  trembled  like  an  aspen 
in  the  wind ;  a  white  foam  gathered  on 
his  lips,  and  his  eyes  wore  distended 
as  with  fear,  while  he  cried,  "  My  God  I 
my  God  I  ask  me  anything  but  that,  and 
I  will  do  it ;  but  that  I  cannot  do." 

Aimto  staggered  to  her  feet,  and,  lean- 
ing against  the  chimney  for  support, 
'ihe  clasped  her  hands  and  raised  them 
to  heaven  like  one  asking  succor  from 
God,  while  she  cried  in  tones  that 
echoed  in  his  ears  until  they  were  dull 
in  death,  "  My  Claude,  thou  wilt  know 
in  eternity  how  I  gave  my  life  for  thee.  \ 
Father  in  heaven,  deal  not  with  this  ^ 
merciless  man  as  he  has  dealt  with  the 
dofenoeless.  Do  not  let  remorse  con- 
sume him,  as  anguish  has  consumed 
me.  Forgive  me,  0  God,  for  all  the 
sins  of  my  life,  and  let  me  sit  at  thy 
feet  in  eternity."  Then  her  hands  fell, 
her  head  drooped  forward,  and  she 
would  have  sunk  unoonsoious  to  the 
floor,  had  not  the  Archbishop  clasped 
her  in  his  arms. 

How  that  night  passed  to  the  misera- 
ble man  he  never  knew.     It  was  a  tom- 


mei 


■■Mftii 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


1«9 


rp.  with  anoxploHion 
lo  Aiin^o  tremblo  urid 
J|i  iiitle. 

IhiulT'"""'^'  "^°" 

havo  no    power   to 
of  the  Btato." 

||o  cried  at  loHt,  with 
1  Jinploro  you  not 
roat  you  to  proml«o 
"o   what  yon   can. 
usto;  gho  has  loved 
'fforing  will  kill  her, 
"JO.     Look  at  mo ;  I 
Tnour  that  Claudo 
takes  months  from 
ivo  no  pity  for  him, 
•ty  for  me.     I  have 
10  little  time  to  live, 
'se  me,  that  you  will* 
'id  I  will  bless  you 
'i,  and  I  will  meet 
eavon.     0  mm  ph-e, 
ir  Aim^e    the    last 
vor  make  of  you." 
nees  before  him,  she 
«id  drenched  them 

as  in  terrible  agony 
of  wrath  had  come.' 
mblod  like  an  aspen 
B  foam  gathered  on 
res  were  distended 
e  cried,  "  My  God  I 
thing  but  that,  and 
t  I  cannot  do." 
'her  feet,  and,  lean- 
nney  for  support, 
8  and  raised  them 
siting  succor  from 
a    in    tones  that 
tU  they  were  dull 
Pi  thou  wilt  know 
'  my  life  for  thee,  \ 
>al  not  with  this  '  ' 
w  dealt  with  the 
let  remorse  con- 
»   has  consumed 
Sod,  for  all  the 
>t  me  sit  at  thy 
n  her  hands  fell, 
rward,   and    she 
ansoious  to  the 
hbishop  clasped 

d  to  the  misera- 
it  was  a  tem- 


pest of  anpiiiish  through  which  ho  was 
whirled  pitilcMly,  for  roniorHo  had  nl- 
romiy  lK.'gun  to  torture  his  /oul  with 
a  pain  im|)ONHiblu  tu  aootlte.  Wlien  ho 
saw  Aini6u  Hiiik  lifeless  lH.'foro  him,  he 
beliuvud  she  was  already  dead,  and  a 
frenzy  took  possession  of  him.  Ho  hung 
over  her,  ho  implored  her  to  listen  to 
him,  ho  accused  himself  of  killing  her 
by  his  refuMul  to  grant  her  request ;  but 
wIkmi  ho  discovered  that  she  had  only 
fainted  from  excitement,  a  reaction  took 
jiiacc,  and  he  was  ready  to  congratulate 
iiiniHulf  that  ho  had  promised  her  noth- 
ing'. All  through  the  night  ho. paced 
the  floor  of  his  room,  torn  to  pieces  with 
c  inflicting  emotions.  Anxiety  for  Aimee, 
which  the  frequent  messages  from  her 
room  that  she  was  slowly  recovering 
did  not  relieve,  mingled  with  the  regret 
that  ho  had  added  another  pain  to  her 
suflfcring  heart,  and  that  ho  had  allowed 
to  pass  an  opportunity  to  win  her  devo- 
tion, and  bind  her  more  closely  to  him. 
When  the  dawn  came,  pale  and  haggard 
he  still  struggled.  It  was  the  Dien  tree  of 
his  soul.  Solemnly,  mournfully,  pealed 
the  strains  of  vongoanco  through  and 
through  the  silent  chambers,  where  ho 
buttled  with  the  demons  who  were  loath 
to  deliver  him  up  to  tho  angels  of 
mercy,  who,  calm  and  white,  hovered 
above,  waiting  to  bear  his  first  tear  of 
penitence  to  God.  All  through  the  day 
tho  conflict  raged  ;  ho  saw  no  one,  not 
even  his  servant ;  he  locked  the  door  of 
his  oratory,  and  throwing  himself  prone 
before  the  cruciiix,  he  extended  his 
hands,  crying,  "Miserere  mei,  Deus,  mise- 
rere ! "  All  the  sins  of  his  lifo  seemed  to 
press  upon  him,  a  burden  that  only 
God's  mercy  could  ren  )ve.  Ho  was 
suspended  over  a  gulf  ot  raging  fire,  he 
was  scorched  and  shrivelled  with  the 
heat  of  Divine  indignation.  Voices  that 
seemed  to  resound  with  tho  reverbera- 
tion of  ages  rolled  into  his  presence, 
question  upon  question.  "Unfaithful 
steward,  where  are  the  treasures  com- 
mitted to  thy  keeping]  Shepherd  of 
souls,  where  are  thy  sheep  1 "  And  from 
such  demands  as  these  there  could  be 
no  evasion.  An  eye  searched  him  now 
that  saw  through  his  garment  of  hyp»c- 
aud  dragged  his  most  hidden  sin 
to  light;  so  he  conld  only  extend  his 
hands  and  clasp  the  feet  of  the  dying 


Christ,  crying  with  broken  tones  of  pen- 
itence, "  Miserere,  miserere." 

Tho  swift  wrath  of  (iod  had  poured 
U|)on  him  a  tcrrilile  retrilintii)ii ;  it 
crushed,  overwheluiud,  ni\d  conquered 
him.  When  tho  day  wiui  nearly  dono 
the  burden  rolled  oft'  h-om  hJH  thankful 
soul,  and  ho  nrtmn  to  his  feet  a  n<<w  ronn. 
The  white-winged  angels  who  hovered 
above  baniHlied  the  i|(^fe«ted  deiaouH, 
and  gathering  up  '••o  firat  to«rR  of  (leni- 
tonce  that  the  Areh'>i«hop  had  over 
shed,  they  soared  ^vtiky  towanl  tiie  bat- 
tlements of  Ik\ivc!i,  l)earing  with  th«cm  a 
freed  soul  that  had  won  its  ruuinoni  with 
tears. 

Afler  this  day  of  wrath  tk«  Arch- 
bishop presented  a  forliiim  upficairanco. 
He  needed  to  wash  awwy  the  iticairs,  the 
traces  of  his  confttct,  to  cnnpueo  his 
disordered  dress,  and  to  brcuik  tiis  fast 
for  the  fiiTst  tin;o  in  twcnty-fviur  hours. 
Then  wit!i  a  pla'id  mien  and  a  thankful 
heart  ho  presented  himself  nt  Aim^e's 
door  to  impart  to  her  the  result  of  his 
day's  seclusion.  "  How  happy  she  will 
be  !  She  will  live  to  bless  me,  dear  sweet 
sufferer  I  She  has  conquered  mo  with 
God's  help.  Henceforth  I  will  live  for 
others ;  for  her  first,  and  then  for  all 
humanity.  0  benignant  Saviour,  thou 
shalt  find  in  me  from  this  day  a  faithful 
servant  I " 

Nanon  was  peacefully  sewing  in  tho 
casement  of  her  mistress's  antcv'hamber. 
The  slanting  rays  of  the  declining  sun 
fell  over  her  white  cap,  and  rested,  a  bar 
of  light,  from  the  window  to  tho  closed 
door.  The  Archbishop's  gentle  tap 
startled  her,  and  she  looked  up  with 
surprise  at  his  calm  and  gracious  face. 

"  How  is  your  mistress  1"  he  said  as 
he  glanced  at  the  work  in  her  hand  ; 
"  she  must  be  better  if  she  does  not 
need  your  care." 

"  She  wished  to  bo  alone,  monseign- 
eur,"  replied  Nanon,  rising  and  placing 
her  embroidery  in  her  basket  as  she 
spoke.  "  This  morning  she  seemed  bet- 
ter than  I  expected,  after  her  attack  of 
last  night,  and  she  wished  to  get  up 
and  be  dressed  as  usual.  After  she  had 
written  a  short  letter,  she  took  some 
wine-whey,  and  then  she  said  with  such 
a  smile,  dear  angel !  —  0  monseigneur, 
she  is  an  angel !  "  —  and  Nanon  wiped 
away  the  tears,  that  perhaps  wore  teai-s 


170 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


of  gratitude  because  her  beloved  mis- 
tress hud  already  reached  such  a  state 
of  perfection,  —  "she  said,  tivi^^g  niy 
hand  a  little  clasp  and  pissing  it,  '  Dear 
good  Nanon,  you  have  been  very  kind  and 
faithful  to  rae,  think  of  me  when  I  am 
gone ! '  0  mouseigneur,  as  though  /could 
ever  forget  the  angel !  '  Yesterday  I 
hoped  I  might  live  longer,  but  to-day  I 
know  I  have  lived  long  enough.  Now 
leave  me  alone,  I  wish  to  pray  undis- 
turbed. I  wish  to  prepare  for  my  last 
communion ;  leave  me  until  the  sun  sets, 
and  then  come  to  me.'  So  I  closed  the 
door  and  left  the  sweet  saint  to  pray.  I 
suppose  her  prayers  are  for  others,  for 
she  cannot  need  them  for  herself.  Now, 
monseigneur,  the  sun  is  just  setting,  and 
I  will  go  to  her." 

"  Let  me  go  to  her  first,  Nanon,"  said 
the  Archbishop,  wiping  away  his  tears 
"  Let  me  go  and  pray  a  moment  with 
her."  So  crossing  the  antechamber 
softly,  he  pushed  open  the  door,  and, 
entering,  closed  it  after  him. 

Aim^e  was  kneeling  at  a  Prie-Dieu, 
her  hands  clasped  on  the  crimson  cush- 
ion, her  forehead  bowed  on  her  clasped 
hands.  The  soft  light  that  streamed  in 
through  the  azure  curtains  of  the  win- 
dow fell  over  her  silvery  hair  and 
white  dress,  bathing  her  whole  figure 
in  a  sort  of  ethereal  radiance ;  the 
room  was  filled  with  n.  lioleiau  silence 
that  was  only  broken  by  the  clear  strain 
of  a  bird  that  floated  by  the  open  case- 
ment away  into  the  distaiat  heavens 
like  a  freed,  happy  soul. 

"  She  is  absorbed  in  prayer" ;  and  the 
Archbishop  crossed  the  floor  softly,  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  her  bowed  head,  say- 
ing, "  Accept  my  benediction,  my  child." 

She  did  net  move,  she  did  not  reply. 
God  had  touched  her  with  his  benedic- 
tion an  hour  before. 

Nanon  heard  a  dreadful  cry,  a  heavy 
fall,  and,  rushing  into  the  room,  she  saw 
the  Archbishop  lying  prostrate  before 
the  kneeling  figure  of  her  mistress. 


PART  TWELFTH. 

CROWNED  AT  LAST. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  deeper  feeling 
of  discouragement,  dissatisfaction,  and 


regret  than  that  with  which  an  author 
lays  down  his  pen  at  the  conclusion  of  a 
long  task,  that  ho  knows  he  has  only 
half  completed,  in  spite  of  the  good 
intentions  and  ardent  hopes  with  which 
ho  commenced  it.  And  mingled  with 
this  disappointment  is  a  fpoling  of  sor- 
row at  parting  with  the  companions 
who  have  borne  him  silent  company 
during  a  journey  marked  by  so  many 
disheartening  failures.  Thev  have  ull 
become  very  dear  to  him ,  he  has 
smiled  with  them  and  wept  wi'h  them, 
been  exalted  by  their  triumphs  and 
humbled  by  their  defeats.  Therefore 
he  sufiers  to  think  that  the  world  may 
not  understand  them  as  he  has,  may 
not  feel  tlio  same  charity,  patience,  and 
afl'ection  for  them  that  he  has  conceived 
during  the  silent  hours  of  the  night 
and  the  renewed  intimacy  of  the  day, 
when  they  have  been  his  absorbing 
though  sometimes  wearying  associates. 
Now  as  I  am  about  to  say  adieu  to 
this  cherished,  though  unsatisfactory 
endeavor,  I  experience  all  that  others 
have  proved  before  me;  and  as  I 
glance  at  the  title  I  have  selected  for 
my  last  chapter,  I  am  conscious  of  the 
cruel  irony  of  the  words  if  applied  to 
my  labor.  But  as  it  is  only  my  small 
procession  of  conquerors  who  have 
merited  to  be  crowned  at  last,  I  bow 
my  diminished  head  patiently  under 
my  garland  of  rue,  not  entirely  dis- 
couraged if  I  may  be  allowed  to  hope 
humbly  that  some  time  in  the  future  it 
may  be  changed  to  a  modest  wreath 
of  bays. 

"  A  year,  a  year  to-da}  ,  for  a  whole 
year,  that  seems  even  ages,  I  have  en- 
duied  this  bondage.  If  one  year  can 
be  so  long  and  so  difficult  to  support, 
what  will  four  more  years  bring  me 
to  1 "  And  Claude  de  Clermont  looked 
hopelessly  from  his  casement  into  the 
distance,  that  he  had  haunted  with  hi: 
gaze  until  every  line  and  tone  were  as 
familiar  to  him  as  the  four  walls  of  his 
prison.  "I  hoped  Aim6e  would  have 
accomplished  something  toward  my  de- 
liverance, but  it  seems  that  she  has 
failed  to  gain  the  assistance  of  the 
Archbishop.  I  was  almost  certain  her 
efibrt  would  be  in  vain ;  his  heart  is 
destitute  of  pity.     I  am  abandoned  to 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


m 


ith  vhich  an  author 
it  the  coDchisiou  of  a 
knows  he  hai)  only 
spite  of  the  good 
int  hopes  with  which 
And   mingled  with 
it  is  a  fejling  of  sor- 
fith   the   companions 
him   silent   company 
marked  by  so  many 
ires.     They  have   uU 
Ir    to    him ,    he    has 
and  wept  wi>'h  them, 
their  triumphs    and 
Ir   defeats.     Therefore 
k  that  the  world  may 
;hem  as  he  has,  may 
charity,  patience,  and 
that  he  has  conceived 
hours  of  the  night 
intimacy  of  the  day, 
been  his    absorbing 
!s  wearying  associates, 
ibout  to  say  adieu  to 
though    unsatisfactory 
(rience  all  that  others 
jfore    mo;     and    as   I 
tie  I  have  selected  for 
1 1  am  conscious  of  the 
he  words  if  applied  to 
as  it  is  only  my  small 
conquerors    who    have 
rowned  at  last,  I  bow 
head    patiently  under 
rue,   not   entirely  dis- 
ay  be  allowed  to  hope 
ae  time  in  the  future  it 
1  to  a  modest  wreath 


lar  to-day  ,  for  a  whole 
even  ages,  I  have  en- 
age.     If  one  year  can 
JO  difficult  to  support, 
more  years  bring  me 
de  de  Clermont  looked 
his  casement  into  the 
had  haunted  with  hi: 
line  and  tone  were  as 
,8  the  four  walls  of  his 
id  Aim^e  would  have 
lething  toward  my  de- 
seems   that  she  has 
he    assistance  of  the 
ras  almost  certain  her 
in  vain ;  his  heart  is 
I  am  abandoned  to 


my  fate.  0  C61este,  my  darling,  one 
barrier  Iwtwecn  us  has  been  levelled  by 
the  hand  of  God,  but  the  injustice  of 
man  has  raised  another  that  I  can  only 
pass  over  to  my  g»'ave.  My  health,  my 
reason,  my  hope,  are  fast  sinking  under 
this  weight  that  presses  me  down.  A 
little  longer  and  my  earthly  deliverance, 
if  it  comes  at  all,  will  come  too  late. 
Poor  Aim6e  must  be  ill,  for  if  she  were 
able  she  would  have  been  at  yonder 
window  to  give  m».somo  sign  of  love 
and  hope.  She  is  the  only  one  who  can 
do  auglit  for  me ;  if  she  has  failed,  there 
remains  no  other  prospect  of  liberation." 
And  overcome,  as  ho  had  been  so  many 
times,  by  the  anguish  of  hope  deferred, 
he  buried  his  face  in  his  pillow  and 
wept  freely,  feeling  that  the  tears  would 
perhaps  cool  the  fever  of  his  brain.  It 
was  the  hour  for  his  noonday  meal,  so 
he  did  not  raise  his  head  when  the  door 
of  his  cell  was  opened,  believing  it  to  be 
the  turnkey  who  entered  with  his  food, 
until  a  voice,  once  familiar,  but  now 
changed  and  broken  with  emotion,  said, 
"  Look  up,  my  brother.  I  am  come  to 
release  you." 

Claude  started  as  though  an  angel 
had  spoken  to  him,  and  raising  his  tear- 
wet  face  he  saw  the  Archbishop  stand- 
ing before  him  with  outstretched  arms. 
In  an  instant  he  had  flown  to  their 
shelter,  and,  pressed  against  the  heart 
of  his  brother,  was  weeping  and  thank- 
ing God,  forgetful  of  injuries,  wrongs, 
and  suffering. 

At  length  the  Archbishop,  who  had 
sobbed  like  a  child  while  he  caressed 
and  kissed  the  head  of  Claude,  raised 
his  happy  face,  and  looking  at  him  with 
love  and  sorrow  said,  "  Poor  boy,  how 
you  have  changed !  Can  you  ever  for- 
give me  for  the  misery  I  have  caused 
youl" 

"The  happiness  of  this  moment 
atones  for  all,"  cried  Claude,  rapturously 
kissing  the  hands  that  still  caressed  him. 
"  The  past  is  dead  ;  my  cell  shall  be  its 
tomb ;  here  we  will  bury  it  and  leave  it 
to  decay.  0  my  brother,  my  brother ! " 
And  he  could  say  no  more,  for  his  joy 
choked  his  utterance. 

"  Here,"  said  the  Archbishop,  showing 
him  a  document  bearing  the  enormous 
seal  of  the  state,  which  at  this  time  had 
no  ominous  meaning,  —  "  here  is  your 


pardon.  I  have  neither  slept  nor  slum- 
bered since  I  promised  to  procure 
it." 

"  And  Aim^e  1  I  thought  she  would 
have  brought  it  to  me." 

"  My  boy,  she  is  an  angel  in  heaven. 
It  was  only  when  I  saw  her  dead  before 
me  that  I  promised  what  she  implored 
almost  with  her  last  breath.  I  would 
give  all  the  years  of  sorrow  that  are 
in  store  for  me,  all  my  honors,  all  my 
wealth,  if  I  could  but  see  the  smile  of 
joyful  gratitude  that  death  has  defrauded 
me  of.  But  she  already  is  happy  in 
paradise ;  she  knows  I  have  fulfilled 
her  wish,  and  she  will  bless  me  here- 
after." 

"  She  will  live  forever  in  our  hearts ; 
we  will  remember  her  as  we  remember 
the  saint  who  watches  ovei  our  lives,' 
said  Claude,  reverently. 

"Let  us  leave  this  place;  while  I 
remain  here  I  suffer  remorse  the  most 
poignant.  Come,  Celeste  waits  for  you. 
She  shall  be  your  wife,  all  shall  be  as 
you  once  wished  it ;  nothing  shall  be 
changed.  You  shall  still  be  Count  de 
Clermont ;  for  my  title,  my  inheritance, 
are  henceforth  in  heaven,  and  I  desire 
nothing  earthly." 

Before  Claude  loft  his  cell,  he  looked 
once  more  with  tear-dimmed  eyes  on 
the  window  that  had  enclosed  a  sad, 
touching  picture,  which  never  could  be 
effaced  from  his  memory,  and,  stooping, 
he  pressed  his  face  for  the  last  time 
upon  his  pillow,  so  lately  wet  with 
hopeless  tears,  and  murmured  a  prayer 
of  thanksgiving  to  God,  who  had  deliv- 
ered him  from  his  sorrows.  Then,  tak- 
ing the  arm  of  the  Archbishop,  he  left 
the  place  that  was  the  grave  of  de- 
spair, hate,  revenge,  and  regret,  as  well 
as  the  gate  to  future  joy,  love,  and 
hope. 

The  soft  shades  of  evening  were 
gathering  among  the  branches  that 
hung  over  the  winching  avenues  of 
Clermont ;  the  air  was  balmy  with  the 
breath  of  May,  and  melodious  with  the 
sweet  good-night  strains  of  the  little 
songsters  who  fluttered  above  their  new- 
made  nests.  Nature  was  In  one  of  her 
most  gracious  moods.  Tender,  gentle, 
fragrant,  tuneful,  she  had  scattered  beau- 
ty and  blessing  over  the  day,  and  now 
she  was,  obliterating  the  golden  tracks 


"'• 


J59» 


172 


A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR. 


'c. 


of  the  sun  with  the  sweet,  purple  violets 
of  the  night. 

The  pines  that  grew  in  sombre  com- 
panionship above  the  shaded  turf  of  the 
A116e  des  Soupirs  murmured  together 
sadly,  but  not  ominously,  for  there  were 
no  spirits  but  the  spirits  of  love  and 
peace  abroad  this  evening,  and  they 
touched  caressingly  the  bowed  heads  of 
Claude  and  C61cste  as  they  walked  with 
clasped  hands,  talking  softly  of  the  mor- 
row, that  was  to  crown  their  happiness 
with  a  holy  benediction. 

"  We  will  never  talk  of  the  sorrows 
of  the  past  but  as  of  blessings  in  dis- 
guise," said  Celeste,  raising  her  soft 
eyes,  filled  with  adoration,  to  the  face 
of  her  companion. 

"  We  will  never  talk  of  them  at  all, 
my  Cdcste ;  we  will  remember  only  the 
good,  the  noble,  the  sweet  deeds  that 
have  won  for  us  such  a  crown  of  happi- 
ness. Let  as  sit  here  and  watch  the 
last  tints  of  sunlight  paint  the  winding 
river  with  the  sapphire  hue  of  hope. 
With  this  day  ends  our  old  life,  and  to- 
morrow begins  our  new.  May  we  keep 
in  constant  remembrance  the  mercy  and 
goodness  of  God,  who  has  brought  us 
together  at  last !  " 

"Elizabeth  had  a  letter  from  Philip 
to-day.  He  will  be  home  in  a  month. 
She  has  seemed  happier  since  she  re- 
ceived it.  I  think  she  will  not  say  No 
to  him  when  he  returns.  I  hope  not, 
at  least.    0  Claude,  I  am  very  happy, 


and  I  wish  every  one  else  to  be  the 
same  1 " 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  they  should 
not  marry  now,  for  dear  Aim^e  has  left 
Elizabeth  a  handsome  legacy,  and  they 
can  live  nt  Monthclon,  since  the  Arch- 
bishop insists  upon  my  retaining  Cler- 
mont. Is  he  not  kind  to  us,  darling] 
He  seems  to  desire  nothing  besides  our 
happiness.  To-day  he  said  with  such 
sadness  and  gentleness,  '  I  shall  often 
visit  you  at  ClcrmftUt ;  it  is  holy  to  me 
as  the  place  where  my  Aim^e  laid  aside 
her  garments  of  earth.  But  I  shall 
never  leave  the  palace ;  it  is  under  the 
shadow  of  Notre  Dame,  and  near  her 
grave.  It  will  be  my  home  until  I  am 
laid  by  her  side.' " 

"  How  he  loved  her  !  "  said  Celeste, 
tearfully.  And  then  they  fell  into  si- 
lence, while  they  watched  the  twilight 
gather  over  the  river,  the  distant  town, 
and  the  slender  spires  of  St.  Ouen. 

Suddenly  on  the  still  air  tolled 
slowl}',  solemnly,  majesticall}',  the  ves- 
per bells  of  Notre  Dame,  calling  alike 
the  happy,  the  sorrowing,  and  the 
sinful  to  their  evening  orisons. 

It  is  the  hour  when  the  Archbishop 
goes  to  pray  and  weep  by  the  tomb 
of  Aimee. 

Toll  softly,  ye  vesper  bells,  above  the 
silent  sleeper  and  the  sorrow-stricken 
mourner,  for  when  your  matins  ring 
out,  they  will  sound  like  marriage- 
chimes,  musical  with  gladness  and  hope. 


I 


THE  END. 


4 


Cambridge :  Electrotyped  and  Panted  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Cc. 


f  one  else  to  bo  the 

^ason  why  they  should 
•r  dear  Aim^o  has  left 
some  legacy,  and  they 
hclon,  since  the  Arch- 
on  my  retaining  Cler- 
b  kind  to  us,  darling] 
re  nothing  besides  our 
\y  he  said  with  such 
tleness,  '  I  shall  often 
ntmt ;  it  is  holy  to  me 
e  my  Aim^e  laid  aside 
'  earth.  But  I  shall 
alacc ;  it  is  under  the 
Dame,  and  near  her 

!  my  home  until  I  am 
>  II 

d  her  !  "  said  Celeste, 
then  they  fell  into  si- 

watchcd  the  twilight 
iver,  the  distant  town, 
pires  of  St.  Ouen. 

the    still    air    tolled 

majesticall}',  the  ves- 
re  Dame,  calling  alike 

sorrowing,  and  the 
vening  orisons. 

when  the  Archbishop 
id  weep  by  the  tomb 

vesper  bells,  above  the 
id  the  sorrow-stricken 
en  your  matins  ring 
sound  like  marriage- 
rith  gladness  and  hope. 


I 


w,  &Cc. 


ggmiUIHJiifift^^^S&iidfsM-. 


